r*r 

& 


MORAG: 


A    TALE 


OF   THB 


HIGHLANDS  OF  SCOTLAND. 


NEW  YORK: 
ROBERT  CARTER  AND  BROTHERS, 

530  BROADWAY. 
1875. 


itf  £ALIF .  UBttAA Y. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGK 
I. 

The  First  Morning  in  the  Glen      .       .  5 

ii. 
Blanche  Clifford        .   - 19 

III. 
Morag's  Home 87 

IV. 
The  Fir-wood '    .       .       .53 

V. 
A  Discovery 75 

VI. 

Kirsty  Macpherson 104 

VII. 

Morag's  Visit  to  Kir  sty,  and  How  It  Came  About    .    140 

VIII. 
Tfte  Gypsies  At  Last 157 

IX. 
Vanity  Fair 205 


iv  CONTENTS. 

PAOB 
X. 

The  Kirk  in  the  Village 219 

XI. 
T/ie  Loch 244 

XII. 
The  Empty  Hut 274 

XIII. 
Back  in  London 288 

'     XIV. 
Visit  to  the  Fairy 806 

XV. 
A  Bide  in  the  Park 318 

XVI. 

TJie  Borders  of  the  Far-off  Land   .       .       .       .831 

XVII. 
Moray's  Journey  into  the   World  Beyond  the 

Mountains 348 


M  O  R  A  G 


THE  FIRST  MORNING  IN  THE  GLEN. 

i 
i 

|O  you  know  the  joyous  feeling  of  open- 
ing your  eyes  on  the  first  morning  after 
your  arrival  among  new  scenes,  and  of 
seeing  the  landscape,  which  has  been 
shrouded  by  darkness  on  the  previous  evening, 
lying  clear  and  calm  in  the  bright  morning 
sunlight  ? 

This  was  Blanche  Clifford's  experience  as 
she  stood  at  an  eastward  window,  with  an 
eager  face,  straining  her  eye  across  miles  of 
moorland,  which  undulated  far  away,  like  pur- 
ple seas  lying  in  the  golden  light.  Away,  and 
up  and  on  stretched  the  heather,  till  it  seemed 
to  rear  itself  into  great  waves  of  rock,  which 
stood  out  clear  and  distinct,  with  the  sunlight 
glinting  into  the  gray,  waterworn  fissures, 
lighting  them  up  like  a  smile  on  a  wrinkled 


6  MO  RAG. 

face.  And  beyond,  in  the  dim  distance,  hills 
on  hills  are  huddled,  rearing  themselves  in 
dark  lowering  masses  against  the  blue  sky,  like 
the  shoulders  of  mighty  monsters  in  a  struggle 
for  the  nearest  place  to  the  clouds.  For  many 
weeks  Blanche  had  been  dreaming  dreams  and 
seeing  visions  of  this  scene,  as  she  sat  in  her 
London  schoolroom.  "  And  this  is  Glen 
Eagle !  "  she  murmured,  with  a  satisfied  sigh, 
when  at  last  she  turned  her  eyes  from  the  more 
distant  landscape,  and  climbing  into  the  em- 
brasured window  of  the  quaint  old  room  in 
which  she  awoke  that  morning,  leant  out  to  try 
and  discover  what  sort  of  a  building  this  new 
home  might  be.  A  perpendicular,  gaunt  wall, 
so  lichen-spotted  that  it  seemed  as  if  the  stones 
had  taken  to  growing,  was  all  that  she  could 
see;  and  under  it  there  stretched  a  smooth 
grassy  slope,  belted  by  a  grove  of  ancient  ash- 
trees.  A  pleasant  breeze,  wafting  a  delicious 
scent  of  heather,  came  in  at  the  open  window, 
and  played  among  Blanche's  curls,  reminding 
her  how  delightful  it  would  be  to  go  out  under 
the  blue  sky  ;  so  she  ran  off  in  search  of  her 
papa,  that  she  might  begin  her  explorations  at 
once. 

Mr.  Clifford,   Blanche's  father,  was   very 
fond  of  sport,  and  generally  spent  the  autumn 


THE  FIRST  MORNING  IN  THE  GLEN.       -7 


months  on  the  moors,  either  in  Ireland  or  Scot- 
land. Hitherto  his  little  motherless  daughter 
had  not  accompanied  him  on  any  of  his  jour- 
neys, but  had  been  left  to  wander  among  trim 
English  lanes,  or  to  patrol  the  parade  of  fash- 
ionable watering-places,  under  the  guardianship 
of  her  governess,  Miss  Prosser.  This  year, 
however,  Blanche  had  been  so  earnest  in  her 
entreaties  to  be  taken  among  the  hills,  that  her 
father  had  at  last  yielded',  and  it  was  arranged 
that  she  should  accompany  him  to  Glen  Eagle, 
where  he  had  taken  shootings.  Miss  Prosser 
looked  on  the  projected  journey  to  the  High- 
lands of  Scotland  as  rather  a  wild  scheme  for 
herself  and  her  little  charge,  having  no  special 
partiality  for  mountain  scenery,  and  a  dislike 
to  change  the  old  routine.  But  to  Blanche, 
the  prospect  was  full  of  the  most  delicious  pos- 
sibilities ;  the  unknown  mountain  country  was 
to  her  imagination  an  enchanted  land  of  peril 
and  adventure,  where  she  could  herself  become 
the  heroine  of  a  new  tale  of  romance.  The 
"  History  of  Scotland  "  suddenly  became  the 
most  interesting  of  books,  and  the  records  of 
its  heroic  days  were  studied  with  an  interest 
which  they  had  never  before  excited.  In  the 
daily  walks  in  Kensington  Park,  on  hot  July 
afternoons,  Blanche  Clifford  wove  many  a 


8  MORAG. 

fancy  concerning  these  autumn  days  to  be  ;  but 
in  the  midst  of  all  her  imaginings,  as  she  peo- 
pled the  hills  and  valleys  of  Stratheagle  with 
followers  of  the  Wallace  and  the  Bruce  lurk- 
ing among  the  heather,  with  waving  tartans 
and  glancing  claymores,  she  did  not  guess  what 
a  lowly  object  of  human  interest  was  to  be  the 
centre  of  all  her  thoughts. 

On  the  evening  of  the  9th  of  August 
Blanche  stood  with  .her  governess  on  the  plat- 
form of  the  Enston  Station,  ready  to  start  by 
the  crowded  Scotch  mail.  Mr.  Clifford  having 
seen  to  the  travelling  welfare  of  his  dogs,  pro- 
ceeded to  arrange  his  little  party  for  the  night. 
The  shrill  whistle  sounded  at  last,  and  they 
were  soon  whirling  through  the  darkness  on 
their  northern  way.  The  long  railway  journey 
was  broken  by  a  night's  rest  at  a  hotel,  which 
Blanche  thought  very  uninteresting  indeed,  and 
begged  to  be  allowed  to  go  on  with  her  papa, 
who  left  her  there.  After  the  region  of  rail- 
ways was  left  behind,  there  was  a  journey  in 
an  old  mail-coach,  which  seemed  to  Blanche  to 
be  at  last  a  beginning  of  the  heroic  adventures, 
as  she  spied  a  little  girl  of  her  own  size  scaling 
a  ladder  to  take  her  place  in  one  of  the  outside 
seats,  to  all  appearance  delightfully  suspended 
in  mid-air.  She  was  about  to  follow  in  great 


THE  FIRST  MORNING  IN  THE  GLEN.       9 


gleej  when  she  was  pulled  back  by  Miss  Pros- 
ser,  and  condemned  to  a  dark  corner  inside  of 
the  coach,  where  a  stout  old  gentleman  entirely 
obstructed  her  view.  Neither  was  Blanche  a 
pleasant  companion  ;  she  felt  very  restless  and 
rebellious  at  her  unhappy  fate,  and  every  time 
the  coach  stopped  and  she  was  allowed  to  put 
her  head  out  of  the  \vindow  for  a  few  precious 
minutes,  she  cast  envious  glances  at  the  happy 
family  whose  legs  dangled  above. 

The  coach  stopped  at  last  to  change  horses 
at  a  low  white  inn,  and  Blanche's  delight  was 
great  to  recognise  her  father's  open  carriage. 
wraiting  to  take  them  to  Glen  Eagle,  which  was 
still  many  miles  distant.  The  change  was 
delicious,  Blanche  thought  as  they  were  driven 
swiftly  along  the  white,  winding  road,  round  the 
base  of  hills  higher  than  she  had  ever  seen, 
through  dark  pine  forests,  which  cast  solemn 
ehadows  across  the  road,  along  sea-like  expanses 
of  moor,  stretching  out  on  either  side.  Blanche 
was  lost  in  wonder  and  delight  at  those  h'rst 
glimpses  of  the  mountain-land  of  her  dreams. 
Her  geographical  inquiries  were  most  searching, 
and  her  governess  had  to  acknowledge  ignor- 
ance when  her  pupil  wished  to  identify  each 
hill  with  the  mountain-ranges  depicted  on  a 
map-drawing,  which  Blanche  had  made  in  view 


10  MORAG. 

of  the  journey.  They  were  still  several  miles 
from  their  destination,  when  a  heavy  white 
cloud  of  mist  came  coiling  round  the  hills, 
creeping  along  the  lower  ridges  of  rock  as  if  it 
started  to  reach  the  top,  like  some  thinking 
creature  possessed  with  an  evil  purpose.  At 
first  the  mist  seemed  only  to  add  an  additional 
charm  to  the  wild  landscape  in  Blanche's  eyes. 
"  O  Miss  Prosser ! "  she  exclaimed,  in 
great  glee,  "  isn't  it  so  pretty  ?  It  seems  as  if  the 
fleecy  clouds  that  live  in  the  sky  had  come  to 
pay  a  visit  to  the  moors,  and  were  going  to 
take  possession  of  everything." 

"  Why,  Blanche,  how  fanciful  you  are  !  It 
is  nothing  more  nor  less  than  that  wretched 
wetting  Scotch  mist  one  hears  of.  Come,  child, 
and  get  into  your  furs.  How  thoughtful  of 
Ellis  to  have  brought  them.  Commend  me  to 
Devonshire  and  muslins  at  this  season  of  the 
year,"  said  Miss  Prosser,  as  she  drew  the  rug 
more  closely  around  her,  and  shrugged  her 
shoulders. 

The  mist  was  creeping  silently  over  the 
valley,  and  coming  nearer  and  nearer,  till  at 
last  there  seemed  hardly  enough  space  for  the 
horses  to  make  their  way  through,  and  Blanche 
thought  matters  looked  very  threatening  indeed. 
Seating  herself  by  Miss  Prosser's  side  with  a 


THE  FIRST  MORNING  IN  THE  GLEN.     \\ 


shiver,  she  said,  in  a  frightened  tone,  "I  do 
wish  papa  were  here.  These  clouds  look  as 
if  they  meant  to  carry  us  right  up  with  them. 
Don't  you  begin  to  feel  rather  frightened,  Miss 
Prosser  ? " 

When  her  governess  suggested  that  the  car- 
riage should  be  closed,  Blanche  felt  rather  re- 
lieved on  the  whole,  and  becoming  very  quiet 
and  meditative,  finally  fell  fast  asleep,  curled 
up  on  one  of  the  seats,  from  whence  she  was 
carried  by  her  father,  when  the  carnage  reached 
its  destination.  She  never  thoroughly  awoke 
till  the  bright  morning  sun  came  streaming  in 
at  the  curtainless,  deep  mullioned  window  of 
the  old  Highland  keep  where  she  found  herself. 

Attached  to  the  shootings  of  Glen  Eagle 
was  a  half-ruinous  castle,  which  Mr.  Clifford 
had  put  into  a  sort  of  repair,  fitting  up  a  part 
of  the  building  for  the  use  of  his  household, 
though  there  was  still  many  an  unused  room, 
dim  with  the  dust  of  years,  among  the  winding 
passages  and  cork-screw  stairs.  In  old  times  it 
had  been  a  fortified  place,  and  Scottish  chief- 
tains had  reigned  there,  and  from  its  grey 
towers  kept  watch  and  ward  o  ~r  the  strath, 
where  were  scattered  the  dwellings  of  the  clans, 
men.  It  stood  in  the  heart  of  the  glen,  rearing 
itself  grim  and  gaunt  and  grey,  surrounded  by 


12  MO  RAG. 

a  massive  wall,  which  had  once  been  for 
defence,  but  was  ruinous  now,  and  pleasant  turf 
sloped  down  from  the  castle,  and  nourished 
along  its  cope. 

Though  so  long  untenanted,  there  were  still 
some  remains  of  its  ancient  furnishings,  which 
the  Highland  lord  on  whose  land  it  stood  left 
unmolested,  in  honor  of  the  home  of  his  ances- 
tors. In  the  large  dimly-lighted  entrance-hall, 
there  hung  many  relics  of  the  olden  time. 
Dirks  and  claymores  that  had  done  deadly 
work  long  ago,  were  beautifully  arranged  in 
various  patterns,  on  the  dark  panelled  walls; 
numberless  trophies  from  the  glen  were  ranged 
round — stately  stags'  heads  with  branching 
horns,  and  outspread  wings  of  mountain  birds  ; 
and  a  fox  too,  whose  glass  eyes  seemed  to  leer 
as  cunningly  as  the  original  orbs  when  they 
cast  longing  glances  at  the  feathered  inhabitants 
of  the  farm-yard. 

Blanche  had  descended  the  broad  staircase, 
and  now  gazed  timidly  round  at  these  strange 
ornaments  of  the  ancient  hall.  She  felt  as  if 
she  could  not  endure  the  leer  of  the  fox  one 
minute  longer,  and  catching  a  glimpse  of  the 
pleasant  greensward  through  the  great  door, 
which  stood  open,  she  darted  out.  The  moun- 
tain breeze  had  a  reassuring  effect,  and  Blanche 


THE  FIRST  MORNING  IN  THE  GLEN.     13 


felt  safe  and  happy  again,  as  she  stood  gazing 
on  the  fair  scene,  in  which  the  bleak  and  the 
beautiful  strangely  blended. 

To  the  left  of  the  castle,  on  banks  which 
sloped  towards  the  river,  were  masses  of  feath- 
ery birk-trees,  with  their  white  crooked  stems 
gleaming  in  the  sun,  and  through  the  net-work 
of  green  Blanche  could  catch  glimpses  of  the 
river  as  it  took  its  winding  way  through  the 
glen.  On  a  sunny,  upland  slope,  rising  from 
the  other  side  of  the  river,  there  were  some 
corn-fields  waving,  which  were  only  now  yel- 
lowing for  the  late  harvest. 

To  the  right  there  stretched  a  great  pine 
forest,  with  the  dark  green  spires  of  fir  fring- 
ing the  horizon ;  and  down  in  the  valley  there 
gleamed  a  sheet  of  water,  lying  like  a  looking- 
glass  framed  among  the  heather.  The  mist  of 
the  previous  evening  had  all  cleared  away,  and 
the  golden  sunlight  streamed  on  hill  and  glen, 
showing  the  tracks  of  the  little  winding  brooks, 
making  the  white  stones  gleam,  and  the  water 
that  rippled  through  them  sparkle  like  dia- 
monds, lighting  up  the  bright  green  patches 
on  the  hills,  which  seemed  so  alluring  in  their 
sun-lighted  hues,  that  Blanche  did  not  guess 
how  treacherous  they  might  sometimes  prove 
for  unwary  feet,  and  longed  to  reach  them. 


14  MORAG. 

Here  and  there  a  little  cottage  seemed  to  grow 
out  of  the  heather,  scarcely  distinguishable  but 
for  the  white  lime  under  the  brown  thatch, 
and  the  blue  smoke  which  curled  from  its  tiny 
chimney. 

The  little  English  maiden  gazed  in  ecstacy 
on-  this  scene,  so  new  and  strange  to  her.  A 
delicious  feeling  of  adventure  and  freedom 
kept  singing  at  her  heart,  as  she  scampered  off 
round  the  grey  old  keep  in  search  of  her  papa, 
for  without  a  companion  her  happiness  was  in- 
complete. She  knew  well  what  she  meant  to 
do.  Into  each  of  these  tiny  cottages  she  should 
like  to  peep,  all  the  bright  green  places  she 
wanted  to  explore,  and  those  gleaming  sheep- 
roads  in  the  heather  seemed  to  have  been  made 
expressly  for  her.  "Wherever  little  English 
feet  could  tread,  her  father  had  promised  that 
she  might  go,  and  she  felt  very  sure  that  her 
feet  would  be  quite  able  for  anything  so  pleas- 
ant. Her  castle-in-the-air  was  quite  outri vai- 
ling in  proportions  the  one  that  towered  above 
her,  when  she  heard  a  voice  which  brought  her 
quickly  back  to  real  life,  with  its  rules,  its  pro- 
prieties, and  its  lessons. 

"  Miss  Clifford,  this  cannot  be  permitted. 
Ellis  tells  me  that  you  have  dressed  without 
her  assistance,  escaped  from  your  room,  and  no 


THE  FIRST  MORNING  IN  THE  GLEN.    15 


where  to  be  seen ;  and  after  hunting  through 
endless  stairs  and  passages,  I  find  you  here, 
without  your  outdoor  things,  and  with  boots 
that  were  meant  for  civilized  life.  I  knew 
what  would  happen ;  no  kind  of  discipline  can 
be  kept  up  in  this  wild,  lawless  place." 

Blanche  was  too  exuberantly  happy  at  the 
moment  to  be  damped  by  any  rebuke. 

"  O  dear  Miss  Prosser  !  I'm  so  sorry  you've 
had  to  look  for  me.  I  really  couldn't  rest  in 
bed.  I'm  sure  it  must  be  quite  late,  besides ;  I 
felt  so  wide  awake.  Has  papa  had  breakfast 
yet,  I  wonder  ?  I'm  in  search  of  him  now. 
He  promised  to  take  me  to  the  hills,  and  I 
want  to  begin  at  once." 

"  My  dear  child,  what  are  you  talking 
about  ?  Your  papa  has  been  gone  for  hours. 
This  is  the  famous  '  Twelfth,'  you  know.  He 
started  at  sunrise,  I  believe,  with  several  gen- 
tlemen who  arrived  yesterday.  The  barking 
of  the  dogs  awoke  me,  and  as  I  was  unable  to 
close  an  eye  afterwards,  I  got  up,  and  have 
been  busy  helping  Ellis  to  make  a  schoolroom 
pleasant  and  habitable  for  us.'' 

"  Papa  gone ! — papa  not  to  be  back  till 
evening !  How  could  Ellis  be  so  cruel  as  to 
let  me  sleep !  I  wish  I  had  heard  the  barking 
of  the  dogs,"  burst  forth  Blanche,  in  grief  and 
dismay. 


16  MORAG 

All  of  a  sudden  the  glen  grew  dim  to  her 
eyes,  and  the  hot  tears  came  raining  down. 
Miss  Prosser  began  to  act  the  part  of  a  com- 
forter, and  to  make  suggestions  of  breakfast 
and  a  pleasant  walk  in  the  afternoon  when  les- 
sons were  over.  But  Blanche  would  not  be 
comforted ;  the  proposal  of  a  walk  seemed  a 
mockery  to  her,  when  she  remembered  the 
adventurous  rambles  which  she  had  been  plan- 
ning. She  followed  her  governess  with  reluc- 
tant steps,  casting  wistful  glances  at  the  moor- 
land as  she  passed  into  the  dark  hall,  where 
the  old  fox  seemed  to  leer  more  cunningly 
than  ever,  as  if  lje  were  enjoying  her  disap- 
pointment. 

"  Now,  Blanche,  dear,  haven't  I  contrived 
to  make  our  new  abode  look  wonderfully  home- 
like ?  Ellis  and  I  have  had  quite  a  hard  morn- 
ing's work,  unpacking  and  arranging,  I  assure 
you." 

A  knot  rose  in  poor  Blanche's  throat  as  she 
looked  blankly  round.  There,  sure  enough, 
she  could  see,  through  her  tear-dimmed  eyes, 
an  exact  reproduction  of  the  London  school- 
room, which  she  hoped  she  had  left  far  behind. 
On  the  wall  hung  the  familiar  maps  and  black- 
board, and  the  table  was  covered  with  the  well- 
known  physiognomies  of  the  school-books  of 


THE  FIRST  MORNING  IN  THE  CLEAT.    17 


which  she  had  taken  farewell  for  many  a  day. 
Every  trace  of  the  glen  was  effectually  ex- 
cluded ;  a  low  window  looked  out  on  the  green 
slope,  and  a  rising  knoll  of  grass  almost  shut 
out  the  sky. 

"  I  had  such  difficulty  in  selecting  a  room," 
said  Miss  Prosser,  with  a  satisfied  glance  round 
her;  "but  I  think  I  have  made  a  happy  choice. 
Ellis  found  one  at  the  other  side  of  the  castle, 
which  seemed  habitable  enough,  but  it  looked 
out  on  that  dreary  moorland,  so  I  avoided  it." 

"  How  can  you  call  it  dreary,  Miss  Prosser  ? 
It  is  the  most  glorious,  beautiful  land  I  ever 
saw.  Do  take  a  window  that  looks  on  it.  But 
I'm  sure  papa  never  meant  me  to  have  lessons 
— I  shan't ;  I  can't  really  stay  indoors ;  I  shall 
go  out  and  seek  papa ; "  and  Blanche  finished 
with  a  wild  burst  of  tears,  while  Miss  Prosser 
sighed  over  her  naughty  pupil. 

It  is  very  plain  to  see  that  Blanche  was  by 
no  means  a  perfect  little  girl ;  and  as  we  follow 
her,  we  shall  be  obliged  to  acknowledge  that 
she  was  wilful  and  wayward  often  enough. 
But  we  are  not  going  to  make  a  catalogue  of 
Blanche's  faults ;  they  will  peep  out  at  inter- 
vals, and  stare  out  occasionally,  as  little  girls' 
faults  are  apt  to  do,  and  not  theirs  only;  so 
that  we  must  quite  shut  our  eyes,  if  we  are  not 
2 


18  MORAG. 

to  see  them.  "We  need  not  do  that,  but  with 
open  eyes — though  true  and  kind  as  well  as 
open — we  shall  follow  Blanche  through  these 
autumn  days,  and  see  what  they  brought  to 
her. 


XL 
BLANCHE   CLIFFORD. 

one  of  the  southern  counties  there 
stood  a  stately  English  home,  with 
silent  halls  and  closed  gates,  awaiting 
the  time  when  Blanche  Clifford  should 
be  of  age.  It  had  been  her  birthplace,  though 
she  never  remembered  having  seen  it.  Her 
young  and  beautiful  mother  had  died  there 
on  the  Christmas  Eve  when  Blanche  was  born, 
and  her  father  had  not  cared  to  revisit  it  since. 
Even  his  baby-daughter  had  been  only  a  pain- 
ful reminder  of  his  loss,  and  he  had  left  her  in 
his  great  dreary  London  house,  with  a  retinue 
of  servants  to  wait  upon  her,  and  had  gone 
away  for  years  of  travel  in  many  lands. 

During  Blanche's  helpless  infant  years,  she 
had  been  carefully  nursed  by  a  faithful  old 
soul,  who  had  been  her  mother's  nurse  when 
she  was  young.  Mrs.  Paterson,  or  Patty,  as 
Blanche  always  called  her,  was  guardian,  nurse, 
friend,  and  playmate  all  in  one.  She  romped 
with  her  little  charge  till  her  old  legs  ached 


20  MORAG. 

again ;  sang  songs  and  ballads  to  her  with 
unwearied  fervor  in  her  old  quivering  voice, 
which,  though  thin,  was  still  true,  and  Blanche 
thought  it  the  sweetest  voice  in  all  the  world. 

The  old  nursery  which  they  inhabited 
underwent  wonderful  and  various  transforma- 
tions during  those  early  days.  JSTow  it  was 
the  sea  where  she  bathed,  or  her  dolls  sailed,  in 
stately  ships  of  varied  manufacture,  into  their 
haven  on  the  rug ;  sometimes  it  was  the  Zoo- 
logical Gardens,  and  Patty  became  the  bear, 
receiving  Good  Friday  buns,  and  every  avail- 
able cupboard  contained  a  ravening  animal. 
And  when  Blanche  got  wearied  with  her  romps, 
she  would  coil  herself  on  Patty's  knee,  and  the 
hours  till  bedtime  would  pass  all  too  quickly, 
as  she  listened  to  delightful  stories,  which  never 
grew  old,  of  the  time  when  mamma  was  a  little 
girl. 

But  these  pleasant  old  nursery  days  had 
passed  away  as  a  tale  that  is  told,  long  before 
the  time  when  our  story  begins.  Dear  old 
Patty  wras  struck  down  by  painful  illness,  and 
had  to  leave  her  little  lamb  in  strangers'  hands ; 
and  now  Miss  Prosser  reigned  in  her  stead. 
Then  lessons  had  begun.  Blanche's  governess, 
being  a  skilled  instructress  of  youth,  was  dis- 
turbed to  find  her  little  pupil  sadly  backward 


BLANCHE  CLIFFORD.  21 


in  all  branches  of  education ;  for  of  actual  les- 
so'ns  she  had  none  while  under  Patty's  care. 
Her  acquirements  consisted  in  being  able  to 
read  her  favorite  story-books,  and  to  repeat 
and  sing  an  unlimited  number  of  songs  and 
ballads,  for  many  of  which  she  had  found  notes 
to  suit  on  the  grand  piano  that  stood  in  the 
deserted  white-draped  drawing-room,  where  she 
and  Patty  used  to  resort  for  their  walk  on  wet 
afternoons. 

"VVe  shall  not  linger  over  the  years  that 
elapsed  between  Miss  Prosser's  coming  and 
our  introduction  to  her  and  her  pupil.  We 
should  only  have  to  tell  of  long  days  of  school- 
room routine,  when  Blanche  at  last  got  fairly 
into  educational  harness,  and  came  to  know 
many  things  which  it  was  right  and  proper 
that  she  should  know.  She  could  tell  a  great 
deal  of  the  geography  of  several  countries,  was 
quite  at  home  among  the  Plantagenets  and 
various  other  dynasties,  could  repeat  an  unlim- 
ited number  of  French  irregular  verbs,  and 
knew  something  of  the  elements  of  more  than 
one  science. 

When  Mr.  Clifford,  after  years  of  absence, 
at  last  ventured  to  return  to  his  deserted  home, 
it  was  something  of  the  nature  of  a  surprise  to 
find  an  eager,  loving  little  woman's  heart  await- 


22  MO  RAG. 

ing  Lim,  and  he  rejoiced  over  his  child  as  over 
a  new-found   treasure.     And   though   Blanche 
never  remembered  having  seen  her  father,  yet 
lie  had  always  been  her  cherished  ideal.     Con- 
stantly she  had  dreamt  of  him  by  night,  and 
talked  of  him  by  day  ;  and  her  favorite  occu- 
pation was  to  write  a  letter  to  papa  ever  since 
she  had  been  in  the  pot-hook  stage  of  that  ac- 
quirement.    His  return  home  was  the  greatest 
event  of  her  life,  and  brought  a  brightness  into 
it  that  was  unknown  before.     It  is  true  that 
she  did  not  see  much  of  him,  even  when  he 
was  at  home ;  for  the  hope  of  an  hour's  play 
and  prattle  with  him,  in  the  precious   after- 
dinner    hour,  was   often  disappointed  by  the 
presence  of  gentlemen  friends,  who  would  talk 
politics,  and  discuss  other  dark  and  uninterest- 
ing subjects,  till  Blanche  at  last  glided  away  in 
a   disconsolate  frame  of  mind,   and    went   to 
bed  with  a  disappointed  heart.      Occasionally, 
however,  she  had  her  papa  all  to  herself,  and 
these  were  precious,  never-to-be-forgotten  hours. 
Sometimes  a  half-holiday  was  granted,  and  she 
went  for  a  ride  in  the  Park  on  her  pretty  little 
white   pony,   Neige,   and   these   were   always 
memorable  happy  occasions.     But  every  light 
has  its  shadow.    After  having  known  the  pleas- 
ure of  being  with  her  father,    Blanche  pined 


BLANCHE  CLIFFORD.  23 

for  him  when  he  was  absent,  and  looked  for- 
ward longingly  to  the  time  when  she  should  be 
quite  grown-up,  and  able  to  be  his  companion 
always. 

These  autumn  days  in  the  Highlands, 
Blanche  had  hoped  to  spend  entirely  with  her 
father.  She  did  not  guess  how  engrossed  he 
would  be  in  sport,  nor  that  her  governess 
thought  it  ^wise  and  well  to  provide  the  means 
for  a  few  hours  of  lessons,  daily.  She  took 
her  place  among  her  schoolbooks  with  a  smoul- 
dering sense  of  wrong  and  grief  in  her  little 
breast,  which  did  not  get  extinguished  by  an. 
hour's  bending  over  an  open  "  History  of 
England."  Indeed,  the  prospect  of  committing 
the  Wars  of  the  Roses  to  memory,  seemed 
to  promise  to  turn  out  as  lingering  a  process 
as  the  triumph  of  the  "White  Rose,  recorded 
in  English  annals.  Blanche  looked  wistfully 
round,  in  the  hope  of  finding  some  pleasant 
distraction,  some  trace  of  the  mountain-land 
which  she  could  not  forget  that  she  had  ac- 
tually reached  at  last,  though  certainly  her 
present  surroundings  did  not  suggest  it. 

A  pleasant  breeze  that  swept  in  at  the 
open  window  was  the  only  mountain  element 
that  could  not  be  excluded  from  this  school- 
room, which  had  suddenly  followed  Blanche 


24  MORAG. 

to  the  Highlands,  and  held  her  captive.  The 
window  was  on  a  level  with  the  ground,  and 
a  grassy  knoll  intercepted  the  view  beyond; 
.there  was  nothing  really  to  do  or  see  any- 
where, so  at  last  Blanche  gave  herself  lan- 
guidly up  to  her  lesson,  thinking  she  was  the 
most  ill-used  little  girl  in  all  the  world.  She 
was  gazing  absently  at  a  map  of  England 
opposite,  in  a  lazy  search  after  Tewkesbury, 
when  she  noticed  a  shadow  flit  across  the 
sunlighted  wall,  but  before  she  had  time  to 
turn  her  head,  it  had  vanished,  and  Blanche 
again  betook  herself  to  the  battle  of  Tewkes- 
bury, with  a  strong  effort  of  attention.  Sud- 
denly, as  she  happened  to  look  up  from  her 
book,  to  fix  a  fact  in  her  memory,  by  repeat- 
ing it  aloud,  she  saw  standing  at  the  window, 
not  a  shadow  this  time,  but  a  real  flesh  and 
blood  little  girl,  gazing  intently  at  her.  A 
brown  little  face  peeped  out  from  among  a 
mass  of  tangled,  raven-black,  elf-like  locks, 
and  a  pair  of  keen  dark  eyes  rested  on 
Blanche,  with  admiration  and  wonder  in  their 
gaze.  The  little  figure  was  arrayed  in  a  tar- 
tan dress  of  the  briefest  dimensions,  which 
hung  in  fringes,  and  displayed  brown  bare 
arms  and  legs,  well-knit  and  nimble-looking. 
After  Blanche's  first  gasp  of  astonishment 


BLANCHE  CLIFFORD.  25 


at  so  strange  and  unexpected  an  apparition, 
it  occurred  to  her  that  the  image  could  prob- 
ably give  some  account  of  itself,  and  she 
was  wondering  what  would  be  the  most  suit- 
able mode  of  address,  when,  as  if  divining 
her  idea,  oft'  the  creature  darted,  round  the 
grassy  knoll,  and  out  of  sight.  Blanche 
sprung  to  the  window,  and  looked  excitedly 
round  to  see  if  she  could  possibly  follow. 
The  window  was  close  to  the  ground,  and 
her  foot  was  on  the  sill,  ready  to  start  off 
in  pursuit,  when  just  at  that  moment  in 
walked  Miss  Prosser. 

"  Why,  Blanche,  what  are  you  about  ?  You 
look  quite  excited,  child ! " 

Blanche's  first  impulse  was  to  confide  to  her 
the  cause  of  her  excitement,  but,  on  second 
thoughts,  she  resolved  not  to  reveal  it.  To  her, 
the  sudden  apparition  of  the  little  elfish-looking 
maiden  was  quite  a  romantic  adventure ;  but 
she  felt  doubtful  if  it  would  appear  in  the  same 
light  to  her  governess,  who  frequently  objected 
to  Blanche's  friendly  advances  to  the  little  Lon- 
don flower-girls,  and  her  delicate  attentions  to 
crossing-sweepers.  Moreover,  Blanche  had  a 
vague  terror  lest  a  pursuit  of  the  little  unknown 
might  be  set  on  foot,  not  of  such  a  friendly  char^ 
acter  as  her's  wa«  meant  to  be,  so  she  resolved 


26  MORAG. 

to  keep  her  own  counsel.  Still  the  vision  ot 
the  weird-looking  little  maiden,  whom  she  had 
caught  devouring  her  with  great  soft  eyes,  like 
a  gentle  timid  animal  of  the  forest,  kept  haunt 
ing  her.  What  did  she  want  ?  where  did  she 
live?  she  wondered.  Perhaps  she  might  not 
have  any  home.  She  looked  very  ragged,  cer- 
tainly, and  very  poor  she  must  be,  for  she  wore 
neither  shoes  nor  stockings,  were  the  reflections 
that  actively  coursed  through  Blanche's  brain, 
as  she  narrated  the  Battle  of  Tewkesbury  to  her 
governess,  who  had  just  reason  to  complain  of 
a  very  absent-minded  pupil. 

When  the  hour  for  the  afternoon  walk 
arrived,  it  did  not  seem  quite  so  tame  and  un- 
attractive as  it  had  done  to  Blanche  in  the  midst 
of  her  more  ambitious  morning  plans.  She  was 
by  no  means  the  broken-hearted,  ill-used  person 
which  she  fancied  herself  a  few  hours  before,  as 
she  tripped  gaily  down  the  broad,  flat,  grass- 
grown  steps  of  the  old  court-yard,  and  stood 
again  on  the  soft  turf,  waiting  for  Miss  Prosser. 
Presently  she  spied  a  familiar  friend  coming 
towards  her,  in  the  shape  of  a  great  black  re- 
triever. He  came  wagging  a  vigorous  welcome 
to  his  little  mistress,  whom  he  was  quite  over- 
joyed to  see  after  his  long  and  depressing  jour- 
ney, in  company  with  the  pointers  and  setters. 


BLANCHE  CLIFFORD.  27 


He  had  indulged  in  the  most  unfriendly  feel- 
ings towards  the  whole  pack,  but  being  muzzled, 
he  was  not  able  to  give  them  a  bit  of  his  mind, 
as  he  would  fain  have  done. 

"Well,  old  fellow,  and  how  are  you?  I 
believe  you've  been  all  over  Glen  Eagle  already, 
and  know  every  bit.  I  wish  I  were  you, 
Chance.  You  may  be  glad  enough  you  can't 
speak,  old  dog — though  you  sometimes  look  as 
if  you  would  very  much  like  to ;  for  if  you 
could,  you  would  be  sure  to  have  lessons,  and, 
instead  of  scampering  about  the  hills,  you 
would  have  had  to  tell  Miss  Prosser  all  about 
the  Battle  of  Tewkesbury,"  said  Blanche,  laugh- 
ingly, as  she  returned  his  warm  welcome. 

Chance  was  a  great  friend  of  Blanche's,  and 
had  been  presented  to  her  as  a  compensation 
for  her  banished  dolls.  His  upbringing  had, 
however,  caused  her  much  more  anxiety  than 
that  of  her  flaxen  darlings.  He  had  been  a 
terribly  troublesome  baby,  and  developed  a 
frightful  bump  of  destructiveness.  He  took  so 
very  long  to  cut  his  teeth,  and  was  always 
helping  on  the  process  by  using  various  appli- 
ances in  the  shape  of  boots,  gloves,  and  muffs. 
But  at  length  his  partiality  for  these,  as  articles 
of  consumption,  somewhat  abated,  and  he  de- 
veloped instead  the  useful  faculty  of  carrying 


28  MORAG. 

them,  and  restoring  them  to  their  owners, 
generally  with  much  reluctance,  but  withal  in 
a  sound  condition.  He  possessed  various  other 
accomplishments,  which  Blanche  had  taken 
pains  to  teach  him,  but  they  were  of  a  more 
striking  than  graceful  character,  it  must  be 
allowed.  He  could  shut  a  door,  which  feat  he 
performed  with  his  two  great  paws,  with  a 
terrific  bang,  to  the  utter  detriment  of  the 
paint  and  polish,  not  to  speak  of  the  nerves  of 
the  household.  His  manners  were  still,  even 
at  mature  age,  sadly  wanting  in  repose,  and 
when  he  was  in  society,  Blanche  never  felt 
quite  comfortable  as  to  what  he  might  do  next, 
so  very  gushing  was  he  to  his  friends,  and  quite 
alarmingly  demonstrative  in  another  direction 
towards  strangers.  As  he  stood  on  the  castle 
steps  with  his  little  mistress,  he  spied  a  kilted 
native,  at  some  distance  off,  and  was  preparing 
to  pounce  upon  him,  when  he  was  collared  by 
Blanche.  Then  it  occurred  to  her  that  she 
might  be  able  to  get  some  information  from 
this  Highlander  about  the  subject  which  M-as 
still  uppermost  in  her  mind — the  mystery  of  the 
little  window-visitor ;  but  Miss  Prosser  just  at 
that  moment  emerged  with  finished  toilette, 
all  ready  for  the  promised  walk. 

On  returning  from  the  walk,  Blanche  wan- 


BLANCHE  CLIFFORD.  29 

dered  in  among  the  old  ash-trees,  and  seating 
herself  on  a  lichen-spotted  stone,  she  resolved 
to  wait  there,  in  order  to  catch  the  first  glimpse 
of  her  father  on  his  way  from  the  moors.  The 
walk  along  the  dusty  high  road,  by  Miss  Pros- 
ser's  side,  had  by  no  means  suited  Blanche's 
adventurous  plans  for  the  day.  But  to-morrow 
it  would  be  different,  she  thought,  resolving 
that  she  should  awake  very  early  in  the  morn- 
ing, and  as  soon  as  the  dogs  began  to  bark,*  she 
would  go  out  and  join  her  papa,  and  he  would 
be  sure  to  allow  her  to  go  with  him. 

Presently  she  heard  her  father's  voice,  and 
saw  him  coming  sauntering  along  the  avenue 
of  birch-trees  which  led  to  the  castle.  Running 
forward  to  meet  him,  she  said  eagerly,  "  O  papa ! 
you  will  take  me  to-morrow,  will  you  not  ?  I 
do  want  so  very  much  to  get  upon  those  glori- 
ous hills." 

Blanche  stopped  suddenly,  for,  behind  her 
father,  she  caught  sight  of  a  man,  staring  in- 
tently at  her,  whom  she  felt  sure  she  had  never 
seen  before.  He  was  a  dark,  keen-looking  man, 
with  iron-grey  hair,  a  smooth  face,  and  heavy 
eyebrows,  which  met  on  the  straight  ridge  of 
his  nose.  He  was  tall  and  spare  and  agile-look- 
looking,  dressed  in  shepherd-tartan,  and  across 
his  shoulder  one  or  two  game-pouches  were 


30  MORAG. 

slung.  He  seemed  rather  taken  by  surprise 
when  Blanche  suddenly  emerged  from  among 
the  ash-trees,  and  now  he  stood  seemingly  ab- 
sorbed in  examining  the  trophies  of  the  day's 
sport,  with  which  a-  pony  by  his  side  was  laden ; 
but  he  was  really  surveying  the  little  girl  by  a 
series  of  keen  glances. 

""Why  what  an  enterprising  little  puss  it 
is,  to  be  sure !"  replied  Mr.  Clifford,  laughingly. 
"  You  shall  certainly  go  to  the  hills,  but  we 
must  first  try  to  find  a  pony,  seeing  Neige  is 
not  within  reach.  Look  what  a  grand  day's 
sport  we  have  had,  Blanchie,"  and  taking  her 
hand,  Mr.  Clifford,  led  her  to  where  the  pony 
stood,  laden  with  the  game. 

Blanche  gazed  horror-struck.  The  only 
dead  creature  she  had  ever  seen  was  a  pet 
canary,  on  which  a  stray  cat  had  designed  to 
sup,  when  the  delicate  morsel  was  taken  from 
between  the  feline  teeth,  and  had  received  a 
burial  worthy  of  the  historical  Cock  Robin. 
But  here  were  more  birds  than  she  could  count, 
as  beautiful,  and  perhaps  as  lovable,  as  the  ca- 
nary of  pathetic  memory,  killed,  not  by  stray 
cats  for  their  suppers,  but  by  her  own  kind 
papa  arid  his  friends.  There  they  hung  in 
masses,  with  their  bronze  feathers  shining  in 
the  sun,  the  speckled  wings  that  flapped  so 


BLANCHE  CLIFFORD.  31 


merrily  in  the  morning,  hanging  limp  and  list- 
less now,  the  little  heads  downward,  and  the 
tiny  beaks  and  eyes  half  open,  just  as  they  had 
been  fixed  in  their  death  agony. 

"This  is  my  little  daughter,  Dingwall," 
said  Mr.  Clifford,  turning  to  the  man  standing 
alongside,  whom  Blanche  had  noticed.  "  She 
would  give  me  no  rest  till  I  brought  her  to  see 
your  Glen,  and  now  she  actually  wants  to  go  to 
shoot  with  us." 

"  Oh  no,  papa !  indeed  I  don't — not  now," 
broke  in  Blanche,  in  a  tone  of  distress,  and, 
glancing  at  the  gamekeeper,  she  saw  him  still 
looking  at  her  with  a  queer  smile  on  his  thin 
lips.  Whether  it  was  from  his  connection  with 
the  dead  spoil,  or  from  something  in  his  face 
which  repelled  her,  Blanche  made  up  her  mind 
that  she  did  not  like  the  keeper. 

Presently  he  untied  one  of  the  brace  of 
grouse,  and  lifting  a  wing  under  which  the 
cruel  death-wound  was  visible,  he  held  it  up, 
saying,  "  Maybe  the  leddy  would  be  likin'  to 
hae  a  wing  for  her  hat :  I've  heard  o'  the  gen- 
tlefolk wearin'  sic  things  ;  but  'deed  it's  but 
few  o'  them  we  hae  seen  this  mony  a  day." 

"  Oh  no !  please  not.  I  should  not  like  to 
have  a  wing  at  all,"  said  Blanche,  clasping  her 
hands  in  a  beseeching  attitude. 


32  MO  RAG. 

"  Why,  pussy,  what  is  the  matter  ?  Am  I 
not  to  be  forgiven  for  starting  before  you  were 
up  this  morning  ?  Never  mind ;  we  shall  beg 
Miss  Prosser  for  a  holiday  to-morrow,  and  you 
shall  go  to  the  moors,  mounted  on  a  little  Shet- 
lander." 

"  It  is  not  that,  papa.  I'm  afraid  I  shan't 
want  to  go  to  the  moors  any  more  now.  I 
think  it  must  be  very  dreadful.  These  poor 
killed  birds !  how  can  you  stand  and  see  them 
all  die,  papa  ? " 

"  Well,  I  can't  say  I  should  like  to  make  a 
microscopic  inspection  of  their  dying  moments. 
After  the  aim  is  taken  and  the  shot  tired,  the 
fun  is  over." 

"  But,  papa,  how  can  you  shoot  those  happy 
birds  flying  in  the  air,  and  not  doing  any 
harm  ? " 

"  Why,  goosey,  for  the  same  reason  as  you 
knock  down  your  nine-pins — for  the  sake  of 
sport,  to  be  sure,"  replied  Mr.  Clifford  laugh- 
ing atTthe  distressed  face  of  his  little  daughter. 

"  Come  and  shut  up  this  little  philosopher, 
Major,"  he  continued,  turning  to  one  of  his 
guests,  a  kindly-looking  old  gentleman,  who 
had  come  sauntering  up  and  joined  them. 
"  She  is  quite  shocked  at  the  monstrous  cruelty 
we  have  been  guilty  of  to-day.  I  begin  to  feel 


BLANCHE  CLIFFORD.  33 


quite  like  the  Roman  Emperor  you  were  telling 
me  of  the  other  day,  Blanche ;  only  flies  were 
his  special  partiality,  were  they  not '{  " 

"  Ah  !  depend  upon  it,  Blanche  has  been  hav- 
ing a  course  of  Wordsworth,"  said  the  Major, 
as  he  shook  hands.  "  Is  it  not  he  who  says — 

'  Never  to  blend  our  pleasure  or  our  pride 
With  sorrow  to  the  meanest  thing  that  lives  ? ' 

But  I  shouldn't  have  thought  you  had  arrived 
at  the  Wordsworthian  stage  yet — eh!  Miss 
Blanchie?"  said  the  kindly  old  gentleman,  as 
he  looked  smilingly  at  the  distressed  little  dam- 
sel. 

But  Blanche  was  in  no  mood  for  joking 
just  then  ;  she  glided  away  towards  the  castle, 
and,  finding  her  way  to  her  room,  she  sat  down 
at  the  window  from  which  she  had  got  her  first 
glimpse  of  the  glen. 

The  bright  morning  light  had  all  vanished 
now,  and  the  hills  looked  grey  and  solemn  in 
the  gathering  twilight.  A  great  silence  seemed 
to  have  fallen  on  the  moors.  Blanche  could 
hear  no  bleating  of  sheep,  no  cry  of  the  moor- 
fowl,  no  merry  whirring  of  wings ;  and,  to  her 
fanciful  little  brain,  it  seemed  as  if  the  valley 
were  mourning  for  its  dead,  for  the  little  birds 
that  would  never  sleep  on  the  heather  again, 
or  mount  to  the  sky  with  the  returning  sun. 
3 


34  MO  RAG. 

And  as  Blanche  sat  thinking  in  the  gather- 
ing darkness,  she  got  among  those  crooked 
things  that  cannot  be  made  straight  by  any 
theories  of  ours,  those  mysteries  which  we 
must  be  content  to  leave  to  the  wise  love  of 
Him  who  has  told  us  that  not  a  sparrow  falls 
to  the  ground  without  the  knowledge  of  that 
heavenly  Father  who  had  watched  over  this 
little  girl  always,  counting  her  of  more  value 
than  many  sparrows. 

Blanche  was  not  sorry  to  have  her  reveries 
interrupted  by  her  maid  Ellis  coming  into  the 
room,  bringing  lights  with  her.  And  as  she 
laid  out  the  pretty  white  frock  and  blue  sash, 
in  which  Blanche  was  to  be  dressed  for  the 
evening,  she  said,  "  Well,  missie,  and  how 
have  you  enjoyed  your  first  day  in  the  'Igh- 
lands  of  Scotland  ? — more  than  I've  done,  1 
hope?  There's  cook  raging,  fit  to  make  one's 
life  a  burden  about  all  those  birds  to  pluck. 
She  says  it  will  just  be  game,  game,  right  on 
now,  till  one  feels  ashamed  to  meet  a  bird." 

"Oh!  hush,  Ellis.  Please  don't  speak  to 
me  about  those  birds.  I  cannot  get  them  out 
of  my  head.  It  does  seem  so  very  sad." 

"Why,  Miss  Blanche,  you're  as  bad  as  cook. 
For  my  part,  I  think  they're  uncommon  good 
eating." 


BLANCHE  CLIFFORD.  35 


"  It  isn't  that,  Ellis ;  but  only  think  how 
happy  they  all  were  this  morning  among  those 
hills,  and  now — I  wonder  how  papa  could  do 
it !  It  does  seem  so  cruel.1" 

"  Come  now,  missie,  that's  what  I  won't 
stand  to  hear  noways — the  master  called  cruel ! 
A  more  kinder  'arted  gentleman  don't  step. 
He  wouldn't  hurt  a  fly — that  he  wouldn't. 
You'll  be  a  callin'  my  old  father  a  murderer 
next,  because  he's  a  butcher,  I  suppose,  mis- 
sie ? " 

"Oh!    that's  quite  different,  Ellis,"   said 
Blanche,   apologetically.      "But,   to    be   sure, 
what  lots  of  killing  there  is !     It  does  seec. 
very  dreadful,  when  one  thinks  of  it." 

"  Well,  missie,  you  don't  think  it  dreadful 
to  eat  a  mutton-chop  when  you  are  hungry,  I'll 
warrant."  And  this  retort  seemed  quite  un- 
answerable at  the  moment;  so  Ellis  had  the 
last  word,  as  the  last  curl  was  adjusted,  and 
her  little  mistress  descended  to  join  her  father 
and  his  guests  in  the  drawing-room. 

Blanche  watched  wistfully  for  an  opportu- 
nity of  a  quiet  talk  with  her  papa ;  she  had  so 
many  things  that  she  wanted  to  say  to  him. 
There  was  still  a  secret  hankering  in  the  bot- 
tom of  'her  heart  to  go  to  the  moors,  for  she 
could  not  bear  to  think  of  another  day  without 


36  MO  RAG. 

him.  But  the  time  came  to  say  '  Good-night' 
before  any  opportunity  for  a  private  talk  of- 
fered itself,  and  Blanche  went  to  sleep  after 
her  first  day  in  the  Highlands  with  a  disap- 
pointed heart. 


m, 

MORAG'S  HOME. 

N"  the  rocky  ledge  of  a  hill  overlooking 
the  Glen,  there  was  perched  a  little  hut, 
which  seemed  as  if  it  had  huddled  itself 
against  the  rugged,  grey  crags  for  pro- 
tection, and  stood  on  its  morsel  of  grassy  turf 
trembling  at  the  wild  scene  around.  The 
mountains,  which  from  the  valley  looked  serene 
and  blue,  reared  themselves  above  the  tiny 
white  shieling  in  dark  towering  masses,  and  the 
river  seemed  like  a  silver  thread  as  it  took  its 
winding  way  through  the  strath. 

On  the  same  Christmas  Eve  as  Blanche 
Clifford  was  born  in  her  sheltered  English 
home,  another  little  girl  had  come  into  the 
world  in  that  rocky  eyrie  among  the  moun- 
tains; and  Morag  Dingwall,  too,  was  left 
motherless  from  the  hour  of  her  birth.  Her 
father  was  gamekeeper  at  Glen  Eagle  ;  the  hut 
had  been  built  by  his  grandfather,  who,  in  his 
day,  ruled  over  the  realms  of  deer  and  grouse 
in  the  glen ;  and  it  had  once  been  a  better- 


38  MORAG. 

cared-for  home  than  it  was  in  these  later  days. 
Careful  fingers  had  striven  to  repair  the  rava- 
ges of  the  wind  and  rain,  for  the  little  shieling 
was  mercilessly  exposed  to  both ;  the  shelter 
the  great  gray  rocks  offered  being  a  treacherous 
one,  and  its  foundation  damp.  There  had  once 
been  an  attempt  made  to  delve  a  Ttailyard  out 
of  the  unfruitful  soil,  and  the  turf  in  front  of 
the  cottage  was  kept  smooth  and  trim.  But 
the  present  possessor  of  the  hut  did  not  seem 
to  care  to  make  the  most  of  his  barren,  rocky 
home ;  he  merely  grumbled  about  it  from  time 
to  time  to  the  land-agent,  the  only  representa- 
tive whom  he  ever  saw  of  the  Highland  lord 
,?ho  owned  the  Glen.  But  the  factor  thought 
that  such  a  great  strong  fellow  as  Dingwall 
might  mend  his  own  roof,  while  the  keeper 
thought  that  such  a  great  rich  fellow  as  the 
laird  might  give  him  a  new  roof,  and  a  new 
house  too ;  so  year  after  year  the  rain  had 
come  drip,  drip,  through  the  porous  roof  on  the 
earthen  floor,  ever  since  Morag  could  remem- 
ber, till  she  had  got  quite  used  to  it,  and  to  a 
great  many  things  besides. 

The  keeper  was  a  strange  man,  and  had  led 
a  strange  life  in  his  early  days,  the  people  of 
the  Glen  said.  When  a  lad  he  had  suddenly 
left  Glen  Eagle  one  winter,  and  be  appeared 


MORAG'S  HOME.  39 


only  to  have  returned  to  take  bis  father's  place, 
when  the  old  man  was  laid  in  the  little  grave- 

O 

yard  on  the  hillside.  And  a  better  gamekeeper 
could  not  have  been  found.  He  knew  every 
foot  of  the  Glen  by  heart.  He  was  the  best 
angler  in  the  country  side.  There  wras  no 
keener  eye  and  no  steadier  hand  in  all  Strath- 
eagle;  he  could  spy  the  game  at  incredible 
distances,  and  knew  every  winding  path,  each 
short  cut,  all  deceptive  bogs.  People  said  that 
the  little  Morag  was  the  only  human  being 
whom  Alaster  Dingwall  ever  really  loved.  He 
had  reared  his  baby-daughter  with  his  own 
hands  the  kennels  had  been  her  nursery,  the 
dogs  her  playmates.  As  soon  as  she  was  able 
to  toddle,  he  had  taken  her  to  the  moors,  often 
strapped  on  his  back,  fast  asleep.  Before 
Morag  was  seven  years  old  she  had  become  al- 
most as  hardy  a  mountaineer  as  her  father, 
going  with  him  to  the  hills,  carrying  his  game- 
bag,  trotting  by  his  side,  with  her  little  bare 
feet  among  the  heather.  She  could  handle  an 
oar  and  cast  a  rod  as  well  as  most  people ;  it 
was  her  little  deft  fingers  that  busked  the  hooks 
for  the  loch,  and  did  a  great  many  useful  things 
besides.  Long  ago  the  keeper  had  entrusted 
the  cares  of  housekeeping,  such  as  they  were, 
to  Morag.  It  was  she  who  cooked,  washed, 


(0  MO  RAG. 

mended,  and  kept  things  going  in  a  kind  of 
way.  Occasionally  the  father  and  daughter 
would  start  on  an  expedition  to  the  village, 
which  was  miles  away,  to  make  purchases  at 
the  merchant's  shop,  and  lay  in  a  store  of  pro- 
visions before  the  period  of  snowing-up  came 
round.  These  were  always  red-letter  days  in 
little  Morag's  calendar.  Sometimes,  though 
very  rarely,  there  was  an  attempt  made  to 
replace  the  little  tattered  tartan  frock  by  a  new 
garri,ent,  bought  at  the  general  store.  If  you 
had  happened  to  look  into  the  hut  on  a  winter 
evening,  you.  might  have  seen  the  father  and 
daughter  bending  in  perplexity  over  a  wooden 
table,  on  which  were  strewn  the  rough  mate- 
rials for  Morag's  new  frock.  Great  and  many 
seemed  the  difficulties  in  the  way,  but  at  last 
Dingwall  would  boldly  put  in  the  scissors,  a  big 
and  rusty  weapon  used  for  general  purposes, 
and  then  the  various  stages  of  dress-making 
would  be  gone  through,  clumsily  enough 
to  be  sure;  but  in  process  of  time,  Morag 
would  stand  in  her  finished  garment,  a  more 
proud  and  happy  little  girl  than  Blanche 
Clifford,  in  the  latest  novelty  of  her  London 
modiste. 

They   were  a  very  silent  pair,   this  father 
ind  daughter.    Often  they  would  wander  whole 


MO  RAG'S  HOME.  41 


days  among  the  heather  together  without  ex- 
changing words,  or  sit  in  the  ingle  neuk  by  the 
fire  of  peat  and  pine  in  dumb  silence,  while  they 
cleaned  guns  or  busked  hooks,  during  the  long 
winter  evenings.  But  notwithstanding  his  grim 
silence,  and  whatever  he  might  appear  to  the 
outer  world,  to  his  little  daughter  Dingwall  he 
was  always  kind,  and  she  loved  him  with  all 
the  intensity  of  her  still,  Celtic  nature,  and 
thought  that  he  was  the  very  best  father  in  all 
the  world.  During  her  short,  solitary  life  she 
had  never  known  anybody  else,  and  had 
hardly  exchanged  words  with  a  living  soul,  old 
or  young.  Poor  little  Morag  had  grown  up 
utterly  untaught.  Like  the  pointers,  her  play- 
mates, she  had  grown  very  clever  in  some 
things — in  mountain  knowledge,  in  dexterity 
of  lingers  and  agility  of  limb.  But  there  were 
wants  in  her  nature  utterly  unsupplied,  cham- 
bers in  her  heart  and  soul  into  which  light  had 
never  penetrated.  Made  in  the  image  of  God, 
she  had  never  heard  His  name  ;  redeemed  by 
Jesus  Christ,  she  knew  not  that  such  a  One 
had  lived  and  died  for  men.  Though  she  had 
grown  in  the  midst  of  God's  glorious  works,  she 
did  not  guess  that  He  who  made  the  "  high  hills 
as  a  refuge  for  the  wild  goats,"  who  "  sent  the 
springs  into  the  valleys  which  flow  among  the 


42  MO  RAG, 

hills,"  was  the  loving,  pitying  Father  who  had 
watched  her  lonely  wanderings,  and  would 
bring  this  blind  child  by  a  way  that  she  knew 
not,  and  make  "  darkness  light  before  her!" 

Most  of  the  children  of  Scotland  learn  at 
least  to  read  and  write  at  the  parish  school,  so 
Morag  Dingwall's  case  was  therefore  an  excep- 
tional one,  and  arose  partly  from  her  peculiar 
circumstances.  She  was  an  hourly  necessity 
to  her  father,  who,  besides,  held  in  scorn  other 
training  than  that  which  looh  and  mountain 
afforded.  The  few  books  which  the  hut  con- 
tained led  quite  a  fossil  existence ;  they  were 
stowed  away  by  the  careful  little  Morag  in  the 
bottom  of  a  great  wooden  box,  her  mother's 
Idst,  in  the  depths  of  which  all  the  valuables 
were  buried  to  save  them  from  the  inroads  of 
the  weather,  when  the  pelting  rain  beat  through 
the  broken  roof,  as  it  often  did.  Still,  these 
buried  musty  books  had  a  great  fascination  for 
Morag ;  often  she  would  peer  curiously  into 
them,  and  long  to  know  what  they  contained. 
She  often  wondered  whether  her  father  under- 
stood their  contents;  she  thought  not;  but 
so  great  was  her  under-current  of  shyness 
that  she  had  never  ventured  to  ask  him. 
Often  on  a  quiet  afternoon,  when  her  work 
was  done,  she  would  slip  one  of  the  old 


MORA  G '  S  HOME.  4  3 


books  from  its  hiding-place,  and  lying  down 
on  the  soft  turf,  would  ponder  over  its  unknown 
characters,  with  an  intense  longing  to  under- 
stand them.  She  felt  sure  that  those  closely- 
printed  pages  must  contain  much  that  it  would 
be  delightful  to  know ;  but  they  were  not  for 
her.  With  a  sigh  she  would  close  the  book, 
and  gaze  up  at  the  fathomless  blue  sky  and 
the  everlasting  hills  around  her ;'  and  sitting 
at  the  feet  of  the  great,  wonderful  mother 
Nature,  she  learnt  from  her  many  things  that 
books  could  not  have  taught  her. 

Morag  had  a  true  eye  for  beauty.  It  is 
sometimes  said  that  mountaineers  do  not  ap- 
preciate the  scenery  amid  which  their  lot  is 
cast ;  and  perhaps  it  is  so  far  true,  that  when 
the  stern  hard  necessities  of  life  multiply, 
they  may  dull  the  sense  of  the  wonder  and 
glory  of  nature  in  minds  which  were  originally 
sensitive  to  it.  With  our  little  Morag,  how- 
ever, this  deadening  process  had  not  begun. 
She  revelled  in  all  the  beauties  of  her  moun- 
tain home ;  with  a  poet's  love  she  gave  voices 
to  the  brooks  and  woods,  and  peopled  in 
her  imagination  the  solemn  pine  forest,  the 
gloomy  ravine,  and  the  breezy  mountain  top. 

The  Glen  was  many  miles  from  the  near- 
est parish,  with  its  church  and  school.  There 


44  MO  RAG. 

were  dwellers  in  Glen  Eagle  who  went  to 
both,  but  the  keeper  Dingwall  was  not  one 
of  them ;  and  so  it  happened,  strange  as  it 
may  seem,  that  little  Morag  had  never  been 
within  a  church,  never  heard  a  sweet  psalm 
sung,  nor  joined  in  a  prayer  to  God. 

On  the  still  Sunday  mornings  she  would 
sometimes  watch  the  straggling  dwellers  in 
the  valley  wending  their  way  along  the  white 
hilly  road  to  meet  in  the  little  village  kirk. 
Morag  often  glanced  wistfully  towards  it, 
when  she  went  with  her  father  to  make  their 
purchases  at  the  merchant's  shop,  but  then 
it  was  always  closed  and  silent.  How  much 
she  wished  that  she  could  see  it  on  the  day 
when  the  people  all  gathered  there !  She 
had  a  vague  idea  that  the  little  company  went 
to  worship  a  God  who  lived  far,  far  away 
in  the  blue  sky,  where  her  mother  had  gone, 
somebody  told  her  once,  long  ago;  and  since 
then  she  had  not  cared  quite  so  much  to  go 
to  the  grave  under  the  shadow  of  the  hill, 
but  loved  more  than  ever  to  gaze  into  the 
blue  sky,  and  to  watch  the  sunset  glories 
before  the  amber  clouds  closed  upon  the  many- 
colored  brightness  of  the  evening  sky. 

Somehow  Morag  always  felt  more  lonely  on 
Sunday  than  on  any  other  day.  In  the  long 


MORA  G '  S  HOME.  45 


still  afternoon,  when  her  father  went  fora  walk 
with  the  dogs,  she  would  wander  down  from 
the  rocky  shieling  into  the  pine  forest,  which 
was  a  great  haunt  of  hers — the  fir-wood,  she  al- 
ways called  it.  Sometimes  she  took  one  of  the 
old  books  with  her,  and  lying  down  among  the 
brown  fir-needles,  she  would  gaze  longingly  at 
the  unknown  characters.  She  noticed  that  most 
of  the  church-goers  carried  books  with  them, 
which  she  discovered  to  be  identical  with  one 
of  the  musty  collection  in  the  old  Jdst:  so  a 
halo  of  mystery  grew  up  round  this  book,  which 
seemed  to  belong  to  everybody;  and  Morag 
longed  that  she  could  find  the  key  to  it  as  she 
looked  up  from  the  yellow  pages  of  her  moth- 
er's Bible,  and  gazed  dreamily  through  the  dark 
aisles  of  pine  at  the  blue  sky. 

Happy  are  we  that  this  Book  of  Life  is  an 
open  page  to  us !  But  if  it  is,  though  an  open, 
a  dull  listless  page,  if  our  hearts  do  not  burn 
within  us  as  we  read  its  words,  then  more  un- 
happy are  we  than  this  lonely  untaught  maiden, 
this  seeker  after  God ;  for  of  such  He  has  said, 
"  They  that  seek  me  early  shall  find  me !  " 

Morag  had  her  code  of  right  and  wrong, 
which  she  held  to  with  much  more  firmness 
than  some  who  have  the  knowledge  of  a  living, 
present  Helper,  along  with  the  voice  of  con- 


46  MO  RAG. 

science.  She  did  many  things  every  day  that 
were  not  always  pleasant,  because  something 
within  said,  "  I  ought,"  and  avoided  some  things 
because  that  same  voice  whispered, "  I  ought 
not." 

In  the  cold,  dark  winter  mornings,  the  "I 
ought"  said,  "  Get  up,  Morag,  and  light  the  fire, 
and  make  breakfast  ready  for  the  kennels ;  if 
you  lie  in  bed  longer,  you  won't  have  time  to 
do  it  before  making  ready  your  father's  break- 
fast, and  you  know  that  the  dogs  depend  on 
you ; "  and  the  little  girl  would  jump  out  of 
bed,  with  her  first  footsteps  on  the  half-frozen 
rain  that  often  lay  on  the  earthen  fioor,  and  set 
cheerily  about  her  morning's  work. 

The  shooting  season  was  generally  the  dull- 
est time  of  the  year  for  Morag  ;  her  father  be- 
ing absent  at  the  moors  with  the  sportsmen  all 
day  long,  the  little  shieling  was  more  than  usu- 
ally solitary  during  those  long  autumn  days. 
The  shooting-party  generally  lived  in  the  vil- 
lage inn,  so  it  was  a  great  piece  of  news  for  the 
keeper  and  his  daughter  when  they  heard  that 
the  new  folks  were  to  live  in  the  castle  of  Glen 
Eagle.  It  had  been  uninhabited  ever  since 
Morag  co  ]d  remember ;  she  delighted  to  wan- 
der rounc  ts  grey  walls,  and  to  peep  in  at  the 
narrow  windows,  k  1  had  spun  many  a  fancy  in 


MORA  G '  S  HOME.  4  7 


her  little  brain  concerning  its  ancient  uses,  and 
former  inhabitants.  She  watched  from  afar, 
with  great  interest,  the  preparations  for  the 
arrival  of  the  new  shooting-party ;  and  on  the 
morning  of  the  "  Twelfth  "  she  stood  looking 
wistfully  after  her  father,  as  he  set  out  for  the 
castle,  with  the  hired  keepers  and  a  host  of 
dogs,  to  meet  the  gentlemen  on  their  start  for 
the  moors. 

The  shieling  seemed  very  lonely  that  day 
to  Morag,  when  her  work  was  done,  and  she 
sat  watching  the  shooting-party  on  the  distant 
hill,  where  her  keen  eye  could  still  distinguish 
them,  like  dark,  moving  specks  among  the 
heather.  At  last  it  occurred  to  her  that  she 
might  go  to  the  old  castle,  and  see  what  trans- 
formations the  newcomers  had  wrought.  She 
felt  quite  safe  from  the  fear  ot  seeing  anybody, 
while  the  gentlemen  were  absent :  it  never 
struck  her  that  they  would  not  leave  their 
home,  as  she  left  her  hut,  silent  and  tenantless : 
so  she  sauntered  down  the  hill,  and  wandered 
among  the  feathery  birch-trees  which  skirted 
the  road  to  the  castle.  She  felt  rather  disap- 
pointed to  find  that  everything  looked  exactly 
the  same,  to  all  appearance,  as  it  used  to  do ; 
for  it  would  have  been  difficult  to  change  the 
exterior  of  such  a  grim  old  keep. 


48  MORAG. 

After  she  had  made  an  exploring  tour 
round,  she  sat  down  on  a  grassy  knoll  to  rest, 
and  then  she  noticed  that  the  window  opposite 
was  opened  up,  and  the  sash  raised.  A  feeling 
of  curiosity  took  possession  of  her,  and  she 
thought  surely  there  could  be  no  harm  of 
peeping  in,  when  all  the  people  were  so  far 
away  on  the  hills.  She  approached  cautiously, 
and  looking  in,  she  saw  the  loveliest  little  dam- 
sel that  her  eyes  had  ever  beheld,  seated  amid, 
what  appeared  to  Morag,  a  perfect  fairyland  of 
delight.  Was  there  not  a  beautiful  table  cov- 
ered with  books  in  bright  gay  bindings  ? — and 
this  happy  creature  was  bending  over  one  of 
them,  with  her  golden  curls  falling  around. 
For  we  know  that  Blanche  Clifford  was  at  that 
moment  in  the  thick  of  the  Battle  of  Tewkes- 
bury,  in  a  very  disconsolate  frame  of  mind. 
Morag  saw  that  she  had  been  unobserved,  and 
lingered  about  the  grassy  knoll,  thinking  that 
she  might  venture  to  take  another  glimpse  of 
this  wonderful  interior ;  but  this  time  the 
golden  head  had  been  suddenly  raised,  and 
a  pair  of  blue,  dreamy  eyes  surveyed  her  with 
astonishment.  Morag  gave  a  terrified  glance 
round  her,  and  then  turned  and  fled,  with  a 
beating  heart,  never  slackening  her  pace  till 
she  got  beyond  the  castle  grounds. 


MORA  G '  S  HOME  4  9 


By  the  time  she  had  reached  the  shieling, 
Morag  began  to  doubt  her  own  eyes,  when  the 
vision  of  the  fair  English  maiden,  with  her 
wondering,  blue  eyes,  rose  before  her.  She 
waited  impatiently  for  her  father's  return  from 
the  moors,  in  the  hope  that  he  might  throw 
some  light  on  the  matter ;  though  when  he  did 
come  she  was  much  too  shy  to  make  any  in- 
quiries. Supper  was  over,  and  Dingwall  had 
taken  his  seat  at  the  ingle  neuk  to  smoke  his 
pipe,  while  Morag  sat  cleaning  a  gun  with  her 
tiny,  but  strong  little  fingers,  as  she  silently 
pondered  over  the  castle  scene,  and  at  last 
came  to  the  conclusion  that  the  bonnie  wee 
leddy  must  have  been  one  of  the  ghosts  which 
were  said  to  haunt  the  old  keep.  Her  father 
at  last  broke  the  silence  by  saying,  between  one 
of  the  whiffs  of  his  pipe — 

"  I'm  thinkin'  we've  gotten  the  richt  kin' 
o'  folk  this  year,  Morag.  The  master's  the 
best-like  gentleman  I've  seen  i'  the  Glen  this 
mony  a  day.  It  would  be  tellin*  you  and  me, 
lass,  gin  he  were  the  laird  himsel' ; "  and  Ding- 
wall  glanced  grimly  at  one  of  the  many  stand- 
ing grievances,  the  porous  roof  of  the  hut. 
Morag's  heart  went  pit-a-pat,  for  surely  it  could 
not  be  a  dream,  and  what  she  wanted  might  be 
coming  soon ;  but  whiff,  whiff  went  the  pipe, 
4 


50  MORA  G. 

and  silence  reigned  for  another  quarter  of  an 
hour,  as  Dingwall  speculated  whether  Mr.  Clif- 
ford might  not  even  bring  his  many  suits  be- 
fore "the  laird  himsel',"  and  get  redress  for 
some  of  his  grievances. 

At  last  he  said,  as  he  laid  down  his  pipe, 
"  Eh,  Morag !  but  I  havena  been  tellin'  ye  aboot 
the  winsome  bit  leddy  he's  brocht  wi'  him. 
She  cam  runnin'  up  til  him,  and  he  brocht  her 
to  tak'  a  look  o'  the  birds,  and  said,  '  This  is  my 
daughter,  Dingwall.  She  would  give  me  no 
rest  till  I  brought  her  to  Glen  Eagle,'"  nar- 
rated the  keeper,  repeating  Mr.  Clifford's  in- 
troduction, which  had  evidently  gratified  him. 
"She  had  been  wantin'  to  go  til  the  moors," 
he  continued,  "but  the  sicht  o'  the  deid  birds 
seemed  no  to  her  likin',  and  she  ran  off  some 
frichtened  like.  Ye're  no  sae  saft,  lass,  I'm 
thinkin'  ; ''  and  Dingwall  smiled  his  grim 
smile,  and  relapsed  into  silence  again. 

But  Morag  had  heard  all  that  she  wanted. 
It  was  no  vision,  then,  after  all,  but  a  real, 
live,  lovely  maiden,  of  whom  possibly  she 
might  catch  another  glimpse  if  she  had  only 
the  courage  to  approach  the  castle  again.  She 
did  not  venture  to  tell  her  father  that  she,  too, 
had  seen  the  winsome  little  leddy.  Her  ex- 
treme shyness  and  reserve  always  made  it  an 


MORA  G '  S  HOME.  5 1 


effort  to  tell  anything  that  required  many 
words,  and  she  put  all  her  thoughts  and  rev- 
eries into  the  steel  of  Mr.  Clifford's  double- 
barrelled  gun. 


IV. 
THE  FIR-WOOD. 

HAT  a  glorious  day  it  is,  Ellis !  How 
I  wish  I  could  spend  the  whole  of  it 
out  of  doors!"  exclaimed  Blanche, 
P  as  she  lazily  stretched  herself,  before 
making  the  supreme  effort  of  getting  out  of 
bed.  "  You've  no  idea  how  dreadful  it  is  to 
be  shut  up  for  a  whole  morning  in  that  horrid 
schoolroom,  with  the  '  History  of  England,'  and 
that  wearisome  geography  book.  I  have  got 
tl)e  boundaries  of  China,  and  ever  so  much,  for 
my  lesson  to-day.  I'm  sure  I  don't  care  to 
know  how  China  is  bounded.  I  shall  certainly 
never  go  there,  on  any  account.  Do  you  know, 
Ellis,  the  Chinese  are  so  cruel  ?  They  shut  up 
women,  and  pinch  their  toes,  and  all  kinds  of 
things." 

"  La !  missie ;  you  don't  say  so  ?  "  exclaimed 
Ellis,  getting  interested,  for  she  delighted  in 
the  sensational. 

"  Oh,  yes ;  indeed  they  do.  They  are  such 
horrid  creatures  !  So  ugly,  too.  I've  seen  pic- 


THE  FIR-WOOD-  53 


tures  of  them.  Do  you  know,  Ellis,  they  actu- 
ally wear  tails  ? "  continued  Blanche,  gratified 
to  see  that  her  maid  was  interested  in  her  in- 
formation. 

*'  Come  now,  missie,  you'll  be  makin'  them 
out  to  be  regular  animals,  and  that  I  won't 
believe,  noways,"  retorted  Ellis,  as  she  vigor- 
ously brushed  Blanche's  long  curls. 

"  But,  indeed,  the  Chinese  do  have  tails. 
It's  just  the  way  they  do  their  back  hair,  you 
know,  Ellis,"  replied  Blanche  in  an  explanatory 
tone,  as  she  turned  to  look  out  at  the  window. 
"  Oh !  what  a  glorious  hill  that  is,  with  its  blue 
peak  right  away  in  the  clouds !  I  wonder  what 
is  the  name  of  it  ?  How  nice  it  would  be  to 
know  all  the  boundaries  of  Glen  Eagle,  now — 
to  be  able  to  tell  the  names  of  every  mountain, 
and  to  know  which  was  really  the  highest ;  for 
yesterday  that  dark  hill  looked  much  higher 
than  it  does  to-day.  Don't  you  remember 
those  soldiers  we  saw  in  Devonshire,  last  year, 
Ellis?  They  were  making  a  military  survey, 
Miss  Prosser  told  me.  How  I  should  like  to 
make  a  military  survey !  It  would  be  real 
work,  you  know,  and  I  should  go  out  in  the 
morning  and  come  in  at  night ; "  and  inspired 
by  the  grandeur  of  the  idea,  Blanche  pirouetted 
round  the  room,  greatly  to  the  disarranging  of 


54  MORAG. 

Ellis's  careful  toilette,  and  finally  she  ran  away 
down-stairs  to  join  Miss  Prosser. 

After  breakfast,  Blanche  was  moving  away, 
in  a  disconsolate  frame  of  mind,  towards  the 
schoolroom.  She  looked  longingly  through 
the  open  door,  as  she  crossed  the  hall,  but  at 
length  sat  down  to  her  books  with  a  resigned 
sigh.  Miss  Prosser  had  followed  her,  and  stood 
at  the  table  smiling  rather  mysteriously,  as  she 
listened  to  her  pupil's  sigh. 

"You  need  not  sit  down  to  your  lessons 
this  morning,  Blanche,  dear,  unless  indeed  you 
are  especially  anxious  to  study.  Your  papa 
has  expressed  a  wish  that  you  should  have 
no  lessons  for  a  short  time.  I  must  say  I 
rather  regret  it,  my  dear  Blanche  ;  you  are  so 
behind ;  there  is  so  much  ground  to  be  gone 
over." 

With  the  last  remark  Blanche  heartily 
agreed ;  but  it  was  moorland,  not  mental 
ground,  which  she  was  thinking  of.  She  began 
to  put  away  her  schoolbooks  in  an  ecstasy  of 
delight,  while  Miss  Prosser  continued — 

"  I  have  a  slight  headache  this  morning,  and 
shall  not  be  able  to  go  out  to  walk  with  you ; 
but  I  have  given  Ellis  orders  to  accompany 
you,  as  I  really  cannot  expose  myself  to  the 
sun." 


THE  FIR-WOOD.  55 


"  Oh,  please,  do  let  me  go  out  all  by  my- 
self, only  this  once  ?  Indeed,  I  shall  not  do 
anything  foolish,"  pleaded  Blanche. 

Miss  Prosser  seemed  disposed  to  be  yield- 
ing, and  at  length  Blanche  started,  accompan- 
ied by  her  dog  Chance.  She  got  strict  injunc- 
tions not  to  get  into  danger  of  any  kind,  and 
on  no  account  to  go  beyond  the  castle  grounds ; 
but  this  boundary  line  being  quite  undefined 
in  Blanche's  mind,  it  gave  ample  scope  for 
extensive  rambling. 

Blanche  felt  quite  in  a  perplexity  of  happi- 
ness when  she  found  herself  under  the  blue 
sky,  left  entirely  to  the  freedom  of  her  will.  It 
was  the  first  time  in  her  life  that  she  had  been 
so  trusted,  and  she  thought  it  felt  like  what 
people  call  "  beginning  life."  She  had  crossed 
the  bridge  that  spanned  the  river  below  the 
castle,  and  now  she  stood  between  two  diver- 
gent roads,  each  threading  their  white  winding 
way  through  different  parts  of  the  Glen.  So 
much  did  Blanche  feel  the  extreme  importance 
of  the  occasion,  that  she  had  difficulty  in  mak- 
ing up  her  mind  which  path  to  choose,  and 
stood  hesitating,  till  Chance,  with  a  wag  of  his 
tail,  set  out  to  walk  along  one  of  them,  look- 
ing back  at  his  little  mistress,  as  if  he  meant 
to  say,  "  Come  along ;  anything  is  better  than 


56  MOKAG. 

indecision :  we're  sure  to  find  something  pleas- 
ant in  this  direction." 

The  remembrance  of  the  little  window  visi- 
tor was  still  uppermost  in  Blanche's  mind ;  but 
she  had  heard  her  father  say  that  nobody  except 
their  own  servants  lived  within  miles  of  the 
castle;  so  she  concluded  the  little  girl's  home 
must  be  very  far  away,  and  that  there  was  little 
chance  of  meeting  with  her  in  her  rambles  of 
to-day.  Then  she  had  seemed  so  frightened, 
and  ran  away  so  quickly,  that  it  was  not  likely 
she  would  repeat  her  visit  to  the  schoolroom 
window ;  indeed  it  was  to  be  hoped  not, 
Blanche  thought,  since  Miss  Prosser  would  be 
the  sole  occupant  that  morning.  The  little  dam- 
sel, with  her  elf-locks,  had  already  begun  to  take 
her  place  in  Blanche's  imagination  among  the 
fairies  and  heroines  of  her  story-books — a  pleas- 
ant mystery  round  which  to  weave  a  day 
dream,  when  there  was  nothing  more  attractive 
within  reach.  But  on  this  morning  were  not 
Chance  and  she  beginning  life  together,  with 
all  kinds  of  delicious  possibilities  before  them 
along  this  white  winding  road  ?  At  every 
turn  she  came  upon  new  wonders  and  treasures, 
and  her  frock  was  being  rapidly  filled  with  a 
miscellaneous  collection  of  wild-flowers,  curious 
mosses,  and  stray  feathers  of  mountain  birds. 


THE  FIR- WOOD.  57 


The  road  lay  between  stretches  of  moor- 
land, which  not  many  years  before  had  been 
covered  by  trees,  but  now  only  a  gnarled  stump, 
scattered  here  and  there,  told  of  the  departed 
forest.  After  Blanche  had  wandered  a  long 
way,  following  the  abrupt  turnings  of  the  hilly 
path,  she  noticed  that  a  shadow  fell  across  the 
road,  and  looked  up  to  see  great  trees  all  round, 
thronging  as  far  as  her  eye  could  reach,  till  in 
the  depths  of  the  forest  it  seemed  as  dark  as 
night ;  while  in  some  parts  the  sunlight  strug 
gled  through,  and  shone,  like  flames  of  fire,  on 
the  old  red  trunks  of  the  fir-trees.  Blanche, 
before  she  knew  it,  had  already  penetrated  into 
the  forest,  and  stood  awe-struck  gazing  down 
the  great  aisles  made  by  the  pillars  of  pine 
rearing  themselves  high  and  stately  with  their 
arching  green  boughs  against  the  sky.  The 
remembrance  of  a  grand  old  minster,  where 
her  father  had  taken  her  to  church  one  Sunday 
in  spring,  rose  to  Blanche's  recollection ;  those 
wonderful  trees  seemed  strangely  like  the  fret- 
ted columns  among  which  she  had  stood  that 
day.  She  had  heard  her  father  say  that  there 
was  no  church  within  miles  of  Glen  Eagle,  and 
she  wondered  why  they  could  not  come  here 
to  service  on  Sundays.  The  choristers'  voices 
would  sound  so  beautiful,  and  the  gr^at  floor, 


58  MORAG. 

covered  with  brown  fir-needles,  and  the  lichen- 
spotted  stones  studded  over  it,  would  be  much 
nicer  than  a  pew. 

Blanche,  as  was  her  custom  when  she  felt 
happy,  sang  snatches  of  songs  as  she  wandered 
on  through  the  forest,  stooping  every  now  and 
then  to  gather  treasures  from  among  the  fir- 
needles. At  last  she  sat  down  and  began  to 
pick  up  some  attractive-looking  green  cones, 
which  had  fallen  the  last  time  the  storm  had 
swung  the  great  fir-trees.  And  as  she  sat  there, 
absorbed  in  gathering  cones,  her  voice  went  up 
clear  and  musical  through  the  arched  boughs, 
as  she  sang,  almost  unconsciously,  some  verses 
of  a  hymn  which  she  once  learnt — 

"  There  is  a  green  hill  far  away, 

Without  a  city  wall, 
Where  the  dear  Lord  was  crucified, 
Who  died  to  save  us  all. 

"We  may  not  know,  we  cannot  tell, 

What  pains  He  had  to  bear ; 
But  we  believe  it  was  for  us 
He  hung  and  suffered  there." 

The  unwonted  sound  echoed  through  the 
silent  forest,  startling  a  roe  that  had  strayed 
from  its  covert,  and  making  some  little  birds 
lurking  among  the  boughs  set  their  tiny  heads 
to  one  side  to  listen  to  the  new  song  in 


THE  FIR-  WOOD.  59 


their  sanctuary.  There  was  another  listener 
to  Blanche's  hymn,  who  felt  as  startled  by  the 
sound  as  the  timid  roe ;  but  who  had,  never- 
theless, stood  listening  eagerly.  When  Blanche 
looked  up  from  the  fir-needles,  wearied  with  her 
search  for  the  cones,  it  was  to  see  the  little 
maiden,  whom  she  had  just  been  consigning 
to  dreamland,  leaning  against  a  tree.  There 
she  stood,  more  real  than  ever,  with  her  little 
bare  feet  planted  among  the  soft  moss,  and  her 
eyes  fixed  wonderingly  on  the  stooping  little 
girl.  Blanche  sprang  forward,  dropping,  as  she 
went,  her  lapful  of  gatherings. 

"  Oh,  please,  little  girl,  do  not  run  away  this 
time.  I  was  so  disappointed  that  you  would 
not  wait  when  I  saw  you  at  the  window  yes- 
terday. Only,  perhaps,  it  was  just  as  well,  for 
Miss  Prosser  walked  in  the  minute  after,''  ad- 
ded Blanche,  who  always  took  it  for  granted 
that  there  must  be  a  previous  acquaintance  with 
those  who  made  up  her  small  world. 

The  little  native  did  not  seem  disposed  for 
immediate  flight  on  this  occasion,  however;  she 
awaited  Blanche  calmly,  as  if  the  fir-wood  were 
her  special  sanctuary.  Blanche  was  standing 
near,  when  Chance,  who  had  been  doing  some 
hunting  on  his  own  account,  finding  the  search 
after  cones  not  exciting  enough,  came  running 


60  MORAG. 

up  to  see  what  his  young  mistress  was  about. 
Blanche  sprang  forward  to  meet  him ;  knowing 
well  that  he  was  the  sworn  enemy  of  all  bare- 
legged personages,  she  dreaded  the  result  of  a 
hasty  interview  with  her  new  acquaintance. 
He  bounded  past  her,  however,  and  running 
up  to  the  little  girl,  he  began  to  wag  his  tail 
in  quite  a  friendly  manner,  and  received  car- 
esses in  return. 

"  Why,  you  and  Chance  seem  quite  friends," 
exclaimed  Blanche,  with  a  feeling  of  relief,  not 
unmingled  with  astonishment.  u  He  is  gener- 
ally so  very  naughty  to  strangers  ;  he  surely 
must  have  seen  you  before  ?" 

"  No,  leddy,  I  didna  see  him  afore  ;  but  I'm 
thinkin'  he  kens  fine,  Morag  likes  a'  dogs,"  said 
the  little  girl,  in  a  low,  timid  voice,  as  she 
smiled  and  patted  Chance. 

"  Morag !  is  that  your  name  ?  What  a  nice, 
funny  name !  But  you  must  not  call  me,  lady. 
I'm  only  a  girl  about  your  own  age,  you  see. 
My  name  is  Blanche — that  means  white  in 
French,  you  know,  and  it  suits  me  nicely, 
they  say,  because  I'm  fair.  But  that  isn't  the 
reason  I'm  called  Blanche.  It  was  my  mam- 
ma's name,"  explained  the  little  lady  communi- 
catively, while  Morag  listened  eagerly,  as  if 
she  were  drinking  in  every  word. 


THE  FIR- WOOD.  61 


"  Do  tell  me  where  you  live,  Morag  ?  Is  it 
in  one  of  the  pretty  little  houses  on  the  moor- 
land, that  you  can  see  from  the  castle  ?  I'm 
so  glad  I've  found  you  again  ;  "  and  the  little 
fluttering  hand  was  kindly  laid  on  the  sunburnt 
arm.  A  light  came  into  Morag's  still  face  ;  she 
suddenly  lifted  the  white  hand  and  kissed  it 
reverentiall}7.  Blanche  felt  rather  embarrassed 
at  so  unexpected  a  movement,  though  it  stirred 
her  little  heart ;  and  after  a  moment's  pause, 
she  said  impulsively — 

"I  love  you,  Morag.  I  wish  you  would 
come  and  play  with  me.  I'm  so  dull  all  alone. 
What  were  you  playing  at,  all  by  yourself  here  ? 
Aren't  you  a  little  afraid  to  stay  in  this  dark 
torest  all  alone  ? " 

"I  wasna  playin'  mysel'.  I  was  only  jist 
buskin'  at  the  hooks,  for  the  loch,"  replied 
Morag,  glancing  towards  a  flat,  lichen-spotted 
rock,  where  the  materials  for  her  work  were 
lying  scattered  about.  And  then,  as  if  remind- 
ed that  she  must  be  busy,  she  went  and  sat 
down  to  work.  Blanche  followed,  unwilling 
to  leave  her  new-found  friend,  and  curious  to 
see  what  kind  of  work  a  little  girl,  no  bigger 
than  herself,  could  do.  There,  on  the  grey 
stone  which  served  as  Morag's  work-table,  lay, 
in  all  stages  of  manufacture,  wonderful  imita- 


62  MO  RAG. 

tions  of  variegated  flies,  to  entrap  unwary 
fishes.  Blanche  thought  them  marvels  of  art, 
and  glanced  with  respect  and  admiration  at 
the  skilful  little  fingers  which  had  even  now 
another  in  process  of  creation. 

"  You  must  be  very  clever  to  make  such 
pretty  things,  Morag.  May  I  sit  and  watch 
you  at  work,  for  a  little  ?  I  have  got  a  holiday 
to-day,  you  see.  Aren't  holidays  nice  ?  "  said 
Blanche,  glowingly ;  then  she  remembered  that 
perhaps  this  little  girl  might  never  have  any, 
and  she  felt  sorry  she  had  said  that,  when  no 
response  came  from  her  companion,  so  she 
changed  the  subject  immediately. 

"  Who  taught  you  to  make  those  wonderful 
hooks,  Morag?  It  must  be  so  difficult,"  con- 
tinued Blanche,  as  she  watched  the  little  fingers 
busy  at  work. 

"  Father  teached  me  when  I  was  a  wee  bit 
girlie.  It's  no  that  difficult  to  busk  the  hooks ; 
maybe  you  would  be  liken'  to  try.  It  hurts 
the  fingers  some  whiles,  though,"  she  added, 
glancing  at  Blanche's  slender  fingers. 

"  Oh !  thank  you  very  much,  Morag.  I 
should  like  so  much  to  try,  if  you  will  teach 
me.  My  papa  is  going  to  fish  in  the  loch  one 
day  soon,  and  it  would  be  so  nice  if  I  could 
really  make  a  hook  for  him." 


THE  FIR-WOOD.  63 

Chance,  who  had  been  comfortably  ensconc- 
ed at  Morag's  feet,  started  as  if  he  heard  foot- 
steps, and  Blanche  looked  up  to  see  Ellis  hur- 
rying towards  them. 

"  O  missie !  how  could  you  ever  wander 
so  far  into  this  wilderness,  and  have  me  search- 
in'  for  you  like  this  ? "  panted  the  breathless 
maid,  with  a  look  of  relief  on  her  face  at 
having  found  her  strayed  charge. 

"  Oh,  my !  what  have  we  got  here,  Miss 
Blanche?  You  don't  mean  to  say  you've 
ben  a  sittin'  all  the  morning  with  that  crea- 
ture ? "  burst  forth  the  flurried  Ellis,  as  she 
caught  a  glimpse  of  Morag  seated  on  the  grey 
rock. 

"  A  regular  tramp,  I  declare !  Miss  Pros- 
ser  would  take  a  fit  if  she  saw  you,  missie. 
Come  along,  this  instant,"  shrieked  the  excited 
maid. 

Blanche  was  by  her  side  in  a  moment, 
whispering,  with  a  face  of  distress — 

"  Hush,  Ellis !  don't  speak  so  loud.  She 
will  hear,  and  you'll  hurt  her  feelings.  Be- 
sides, I'm  sure  she  isn't  a  tramp — if  that's 
anything  bad.  She's  such  a  dear  nice  little 
girl,  and  so  clever.  I'll  tell  yon  all  about 
her  presently,''  added  Blanche,  nodding  con- 
fidentially. 


64  MORAG. 

"Well,  you've  got  to  come  home  this  in- 
stant, missie.  There's  somebody  awaitin'  for 
you,"  said  Ellis,  mysteriously. 

"  Oh !  then,  it  isn't  Miss  Prosser  who 
thinks  I've  stayed  too  long,"  said  Blanche  in 
a  relieved  tone.  "  Go  on,  Ellis,  and  I'll  come 
after  you  in  a  minute.  I  must  first  say  good- 
bye to  Morag." 

Ellis,  thus  commanded,  good-naturedly  obey- 
ed, while  Blanche  went  to  rejoin  her  new  ac- 
quaintance, whom  she  found  still  seated  silently 
at  work. 

"  I'm  so  sorry  I  must  go  now,  Morag,  but 
I'll  come  back  again  to-morrow.  I  shall  find 
you  here,  shan't  I  ?  Good-bye,  Morag  ;  I  must 
really  run  now,  or  Ellis  will  be  cross." 

She  waited  for  some  reply,  but  none  came, 
only  the  soft  eyes  looked  up  wistfully  into  her 
face  for  a  moment,  and  the  little  girl  went 
quietly  on  with  her  work  again. 

Blanche  was  soon  at  Ellis's  side  prattling 
about  her  morning  experiences,  and  trying 
to  convince  her  maid  of  the  irreproachable 
respectability  of  her  new  acquaintance.  But 
the  smart  Ellis  shook  her  head  skeptically ; 
she  shared  Miss  Kilmansegg's  opinion  ( of 
golden-leg  fame),  that  "  them  as  has  naught 
is  naughty,"  and  she  would  continue  to  insist, 


THE  FIR-  WOOD.  65 


in  spite  of  Blanche's  eloquent  expostulations, 
that  the  little  bare-legged  tattered  native  must 
necessarily  be  a  dangerous  tramp,  the  off- 
shoot from  a  whole  gang  lurking  near;  and 
Ellis  looked  fearfully  around,  as  if  out  of  every 
bracken  might  spring  a  gypsy,  and  felt  sure 
that  had  it  not  been  for  her  opportune  ap- 
pearance on  the  scene,  her  little  mistress  would 
certainly  have  been  kidnapped. 

As  soon  as  the  strangers  were  gone  a  little 
distance,  Morag  laid  down  her  work,  and  gli- 
ding up  to  the  old  fir-tree  where  she  had  stood 
to  listen  to  Blanche's  hymn,  she  leant  against 
it,  and  shading  her  eyes  with  her  hand  she 
gazed  wistfully  after  them  as  they  disappeared 
among  the  pillars  of  pine.  "  The  bonnie  wee 
leddy,  she's  awa'.  They'll  no  be  lettin'  her 
speak  wi'  the  like  o'  me  anither  time,"  solilo- 
quised Morag,  who,  like  most  solitary  people, 
had  the  habit  of  speaking  her  thoughts  aloud 
when  alone.  "  That  gran'  like  woman  thocht 
I  was  a  tramp.  I'm  thinkin'  I'll  look  some 
like  ane,"  she  murmured,  looking  down  with  a 
new  feeling  of  discomfort  on  her  tattered  little 
garment.  "I'll  men'  it  up  some  the  nicht, 
though,  and  mak'  it  look  a  wee  bit  better  afore 
the  morn.  She  said  she  would  be  back  again. 
Who  will  the  Lord  be  she  was  singin'  aboot, 
5 


66  MORAG. 

that  died  upo'  the  green  hill  ?  I  never  heard 
tell  o'  Him.  It  surely  canna  hae  been  on  oor 
ain  hills  here  aboot,"  continued  Morag,  as  she 
gathered  np  the  scattered  materials  for  her  hook- 
making,  and  wandered  slowly  away  towards  her 
home  among  the  crags. 

In  the  meantime  Blanche  had  reached  the 
castle,  and  discovered  the  mysterious  "  some- 

'  «/ 

body"  who  awaited  her,  of  whom  she  could  not 
persuade  Ellis  to  divulge  anything.  In  the 
cool  shadow  of  the  grey  tower  there  stood,  await- 
ing her  inspection,  a  lovely  little  Shetland  pony, 
one  of  the  blackest,  roundest,  daintiest  of  his 
breed.  Blanche  sprang  forward  with  a  cry  of 
delight. 

"Oh,  what  a  little  darling!  You  don't 
mean  to  say  he  is  for  me  ? "  The  little  fellow 
turned  his  bright  black  eyes  on  her,  and  shook 
his  shaggy  mane,  as  if  to  say,  "  So  you  are  my 
little  mistress  !  Let's  have  a  look  at  you.  I 
hope  you  are  inclined  to  be  pleasant !  " 

Blanche  returned  his  gaze  by  throwing  her 
arms  round  his  neck  and  hugging  him  heartily, 
greatly  to  the  amusement  of  the  Highlander 
who  had  brought  him,  and  was  standing  by. 

"  What  lovely  eyes  he  has  got,  hasn't  he, 
Ellis?  Do  you  know,  they  remind  me  of" — 
Morag's  she  was  going  to  say ;  but  she  remem- 


THE  FIR-WOOD.  67 


bered  that  was  a  forbidden  name.  Presently 
she  ran  to  find  Miss  Prosser,  that  she  might 
come  and  ad  mite  the  new  favorite. 

"  He  looks  so  perfectly  good  and  quiet,  quite 
like  a  dog.  I'm  sure  I  may  sometimes  ride  him 
alone,  mayn't  I,  Miss  Prosser  ?  " 

"  I  shall  never  sanction  such  a  step,  and  I 
cannot  think  that  your  papa  will  consider  it 
either  wise  or  proper  for  you  to  ride  alone,"  re- 
plied her  governess,  shocked  by  the  suggestion. 

"  What's  his  name  ? "  asked  Blanche,  turning 
to  the  owner  of  the  pony,  anxious  to  change  a 
subject  which  she  saw  had  not  met  with  appro- 
val. 

"  Anything  my  little  leddy  pleases ;  she  be 
not  got  any  name  to  hersel  yet ;  "  and  turning 
to  Miss  Prosser,  he  said,  evidently  anxious  to 
establish  the  character  of  his  late  possession, 
"  She's  as  quiet 's  a  lamb,  leddy,  and  there  isna 
a  foot  o'  the  Glen  she  doesna  know  as  weel  's 
mysel'." 

But  Miss  Prosser  shook  1  er  head  incredu- 
lously under  her  sunshade,  as  she  moved  away. 

"  Nonsense,  Blanche,  you  silly  child !  Don't 
you  know  that  horse-dealers  are  proverbial 
cheats?  The  animal  is  probably  the  greatest 
vixen  under  the  sun.  Those  small  ponies  are 
most  dangerous  and  tricky  always." 


68  MO  RAG. 

But  Blanche,  nothing  daunted  by  the  al- 
leged bad  character  of  her  new  favorite,  set  her 
little  brain  to  work  to  find  a  name  for  him. 
As  Miss  Prosser  disapproved  of  any  lady's 
name  being  bestowed  on  one  of  the  lower  ani- 
mals, the  selection  became  more  limited.  Af- 
ter searching  through  several  volumes  of  his- 
tory, ancient  and  modern,  and  various  volumes 
of  lighter  literature,  with  an  assiduity  worthy 
of  a  better  cause,  her  governess  remarked, 
Blanche  decided  that,  after  all,  no  name  seemed 
to  suit  the  little  fellow  so  well  as  the  one 
which  had  at  first  suggested  itself,  but  was  set 
aside  as  being  too  commonplace,  that  of  Shag. 
So  oif  she  trotted  to  inform  the  little  Shet- 
lander  that  he  was  no  longer  nameless,  and  to 
see  what  he  was  thinking  of  his  new  quarters. 

The  next  day,  to  Blanche's  great  delight, 
her  papa  announced  that  he  was  not  going  to 
the  moors,  and  meant  to  take  his  little  daughter 
out  for  a  ride.  The  horses  had  been  ordered 
round  at  twelve  o'clock,  and  Blanche  spent  the 
morning  in  aimless  wanderings  round  the  cas- 
tle, wishing  that  the  hour  for  starting  would 
arrive ;  a  ride  with  her  papa  was  such  a  rare 
piece  of  happiness,  that  the  prospect  quite  suf- 
ficed for  her  morning's  entertainment,  without 
setting  anything  else  on  foot. 


THE  FIR-WOOD.  69 


At  last  a  practical  difficulty  presented  itself, 
which  she  had  not  thought  of  before,  and  she 
ran  off  to  find  her  maid  to  remind  her  that  her 
riding-habit  had  been  left  at  home,  lor  she  re- 
membered hearing  Miss  Prosser  say  that  there 
was  no  need  of  including  it  in  the  Highland 
wardrobe,  since  the  little  Neige  was  to  be  left 
behind  in  his  London  stables. 

"Well  now,  missie,  did  you  never  think 
o£  that  till  this  time  of  day  ?  A  pretty  job  it 
would  have  been  for  you  if  everybody  else  had 
been  so  forgetful,"  said  the  maid,  smiling,  as 
she  took  from  a  drawer  a  pretty  new  tartan 
riding-habit,  all  ready  to  wear. 

"  There  now,  Miss  Blanche,  that's  what 
has  kept  me  so  busy  for  the  last  two  days. 
I've  just  this  minute  finished  runnin'  it  up. 
It's  a  queer  color  for  a  habit,  I  must  say,  but 
it's  the  best  thing  to  be  found  at  the  village 
shop." 

"  Oh  !  you  dear  good  Ellis,  how  kind  of 
you  to  make  it  in  such  a  hurry  !  It  is  such  a 
beauty,  much  prettier  than  my  dark  blue  at 
home.  Don't  you  think  I  might  put  it  on 
now,  just  to  see  how  it  looks  ?  " 

So  the  riding-habit  was  rather  prematurely 
donned,  and  Chance  with  his  mistress  were 
waiting  in  the  hall  some  time  before  the  little 


70  MORAG. 

Shag  and  his  stately  bay  companion  appeared  in 
the  court-yard.  Blanche  was  already  mounted 
when  Mr.  Clifford  emerged  from  the  library 
with  his  budget  of  letters  ready  for  the  post- 
bag. 

"What  a  regular  Highland  lassie  it  is,  to 
be  sure ! "  said  he,  glancing  at  Blanche's  gay- 
colored  habit  as  he  mounted  his  horse. 

"It  is  certainly  most  unsuitable,"  apologized 
Miss  Prosser,  who  had  come  out  to  see  them 
start.  "  But  it  was  really  the  only  material 
procurable  in  these  uncivilized  regions." 

"  It's  a  first-rate  attire — quite  in  keeping, 
I  assure  you,  Miss  Prosser.  Come  along, 
Blanchie;  you  will  quite  charm  the  deer  and 
the  moor-fowl  by  having  got  yourself  up  in 
their  native  tartan." 

On  the  riders  went,  soon  leaving  the  shady 
birch-avenue  far  behind,  and  getting  among 
breezy  moors.  It  was  a  perfect  autumn  day, 
the  sky  was  serene  and  bright,  and  a  pleasant 
heathery  perfume  filled  the  air.  Blanche's 
long  fair  curls  floated  in  the  breeze,  and  her 
face  glowed  with  pleasure  as  she  swept  on 
alongside  her  father,  the  little  Shetlander  can- 
tering as  fast  as  it  could  lay  its  short  legs  to 
the  ground,  trying  to  keep  pace  with  the 
swinging  trot  of  the  long-limbed  hunter. 


THE  FIR- WOOD.  71 

"  Shag,  as  you  call  him,  is  quite  a  success, 
Blanchie,"  said  Mr.  Clifford,  as  he  reined  his 
horse  in  at  last.  "  I'm  afraid  he  will  prove 
even  a  rival  to  Neige." 

"  Oh  no,  papa ;  there's  no  fear  of  that ;  my 
heart  is  big  enough  to  love  a  dozen  ponies. 
Shag  is  a  perfect  darling,  though.  He  seems 
so  good  and  quiet,  too;  don't  you  think  I 
might  ride  him  alone,  papa  ?  '' 

"  Ride  quite  alone  ?  I  am  not  so  sure 
about  that,  pussy.  Don't  you  think  you'd  feel 
like  the  damsel  all  forlorn.  I  think  you  must 
be  satisfied  with  Lucas  when  I  can't  come. 
Poor  old  fellow  !  he  prefers  his  carriage-box  to 
his  saddle  nowadays,  he  is  getting  so  asthmat- 
ic; but  I  don't  think  I  can  trust  you  with  any- 
body else." 

"  O  papa !  please  don't  send  Lucas  with 
me;  he's  so  old  and  stupid,  and  wheezes  so 
dreadfully;  and  he  always  says  so  solemnly, 
'  Take  care  missie,'  when  we  begin  to  go  fast. 
I'd  much  rather  wait  till  you  can  come,  if  I 
mayn't  go  alone." 

As  Blanche  cantered  on  by  her  father's 
side,  she  suddenly  remembered  her  promise  to 
meet  Morag  in  the  fir-wood,  which  she  had 
forgotten  in  the  excitement  of  the  morning. 
She  was  hesitating  whether  she  should  tell  her 


72  MORAG. 

papa  about  her  new  acquaintance,  and  wonder- 
ing if  he  would  call  her  a  dangerous  gypsy  as 
Ellis  did,  when  her  thoughts  were  diverted  by 
coming  within  sight  of  a  human  habitation  of 
some  kind  ;  the  first  they  had  seen  since  leav- 
ing the  castle,  so  Blanche  viewed  it  with  some 
curiosity.  She  wondered  whether  all  the  cot- 
tages that  studded  the  valley  looked  as  neat 
and  pretty  as  this  one,  which  stood  in  its  lit- 
tle fenced-in  garden,  growing  out  of  the  bleak 
moorland,  where  nourished  gooseberry  and 
currant  bushes,  besides  drills  of  cabbage  and 
potatoes.  The  late  summer  flowers  were  still 
gay  and  sweet,  and  creeping  rose-bushes  grew 
on  the  white  wall  under  the  brown  thatch, 
which  looked  thick  and  trim,  all  studded  over 
with  thick,  green  moss  as  soft  as  velvet.  The 
little  windows  were  bright  and  shining,  and 
the  tiny  muslin  curtains  looped  up  behind 
them  looked  spotless  and  dainty. 

"  O  papa !  what  a  lovely  little  cottage ;  it 
looks  quite  like  a  doll's  house ! "  exclaimed 
Blanche. 

"  It  is  certainly  a  wonderful  abode  to  fin  1 
in  such  a  wild  spot,"  said  Mr.  Clifford,  glanc- 
ing at  the  well-kept  garden.  "  The  occupants, 
whoever  they  are,  have  certainly  contrived  to 
make  the  wilderness  blossom." 


THE  FIR-WOOD.  73 


Behind  the  cottage,  and  evidently  belong- 
ing to  it,  was  a  little  patch  of  cornfield,  that 
lay  yellow  and  shining  in  the  sun,  quite  ripe 
for  harvest ;  indeed  it  was  partly  cut  down, 
though  there  appeared  to  be  only  one  reaper  in 
the  field.  Blanche  slackened  her  pony's  rein 
to  look  at  the  old  woman  who  was  bending 
over  a  sheaf  which  she  had  been  binding,  with 
no  other  help  than  her  frail  trembling  fingers. 
Attracted  by  the  unusual  sound  of  passers-by, 
she  looked  up  from  her  work,  and  caught  a 
glimpse  of  the  little  girl's  face,  who  had 
lingered  behind  her  papa,  and  was  looking 
pityingly  across  the  old  grey  dyke  on  the 
lonely  reaper  at  her  toilsome  afternoon's  work. 
"  They'll  be  the  new  folk  that's  come  til  the 
castle,  I'm  thinkin'.  She's  a  richt  bonnie  bit 
leddy  that,  though,"  soliloquised  the  old  wom- 
an, as  she  shaded  her  quiet  gray  eyes  with 
her  long  thin  fingers,  and  gazed  after  the 
riders.  "  May  the  Lord  hiinsel'  keep  her  bon- 
nie in  His  ain  e'en,  as  she's  fair  til  see;"  and 
stooping  down,  she  lifted  her  hook,  and  went 
on  with  her  work  a^ain. 

o 

Blanche  and  her  father  soon  left  the  pretty 
cottage  far  behind,  as  they  cantered  on  in  the 
delicious  breeze,  which  wafted  all  manner  of 
pleasant  odors  and  thoughts  to  the  little  girl, 


74  MORAG. 

who  rode  gaily  on  in  the  sunshine ;  but  it  did 
not  waft  to  her  ears  the  prayer  which  had 
gone  up  to  God  for  her,  that  afternoon,  from 
one  of  His  true  servants,  the  lowly  bent  woman 
on  whom  the  blue  eyes  of  the  little  maiden  had 
been  so  pityingly  cast. 


7. 
A  DISCOVERY. 

HE  day  after  Blanche's  ride  was  very 
stormy.  The  peaceful  Glen  seemed 
suddenly  thrown  into  a  wild  tumult. 
Now  and  then  a  long  low  rattle  of  thun- 
der sounded  along  the  mountains,  and  the  great 
fir-trees  creaked  and  swung,  making  all  manner 
of  weird  choruses  among  the  aisles  of  pine. 
The  rain  had  fallen  in  torrents  during  the  night, 
and  there  seemed  still  an  inexhaustible  supply 
in  the  gray  sheets  of  mist  that  hovered  over  the 
nearer  hills.  The  little  mountain  rills  hurried 
white  and  foaming  to  the  river,  which  moaned 
and  raged  along  the  valley,  carrying  with  it  on 
its  wild  way  to  the  sea  more  than  one  wooden 
bridge  which  had  been  wrenched  from  its  frail 
moorings  by  the  spate.  It  was  a  true  High- 
land storm,  the  first  Blanche  had  ever  seen,  and 
she  stood  watching  it  with  mingled  feelings  of 
interest  and  disappointment.  She  knew  well 
what  she  meant  to  do  with  this  holiday,  if  only 
the  sun  had  kept  its  golden  promises  of  last 


76  MORAG. 

night.  But  this  storm  had  upset  all  Ler  plans, 
and  she  was  filled  with  remorse  at  the  thought 
of  the  neglected  tryst  in  the  fir-wood,  and  felt 
out  of  sorts  with  herself  and  all  the  world. 
Her  last  hope  of  any  fun  that  afternoon  de- 
parted as  she  stood  in  the  old  hall,  and  watched 
her  father  and  his  guests  get  into  their  water- 
proofs and  prepare  to  start  on  an  expedition  to 
see  the  swollen  river.  She  would  gladly  have 
accepted  an  invitation,  laughingly  given  by  the 
old  Major,  that  she  should  join  the  party,  but 
Miss  Prosser  had  been  quite  shocked  by  the 
suggestion.  "  It  was  improper  at  any  time  for 
a  young  lady  to  go  out  in  rain,  and  in  a  deluge 
like  the  present,  quite  out  of  the  question,"  she 
replied,  from  the  side  of  the  school-room  fire, 
where  she  sat  shivering.  Nothing  was  to  be 
seen  from  the  window,  except  the  rain,  which 
came  plash,  plash  on  the  soaking  turf  in  a 
dreary  monotone  of  dulness,  and  Blanche  con- 
trived to  make  her  escape  while  Miss  Prosser 
had  fallen  into  brief,  though  sound  slumbers. 
She  took  refuge  in  Ellis's  society,  whom  she 
found  sewing  busily  in  her  room.  But  here 
things  did  not  go  to  her  mind  an}7  more  than 
in  the  school-room,  for  Ellis  had  taken  the  op- 
portunity of  warning  her  little  mistress  that  if 
she  were  ever  found  '  addressin'  of  that  tramp' 


A  DISCOVERY.  77 

again,  she  would  feel  in  duty  bound  to  in- 
form Miss  Prosser,  nor  could  any  coaxing  of 
Blanche's  persuade  her  to  promise  silence. 

"  No,  missie ;  I'll  not  hold  my  tongue  for 
nobody.  My  very  heart  came  to  my  mouth 
when  I  saw  you  talkin'  to  that  creature,  just  as 
friendly  and  unsuspectin'  as  if  she'd  been  your 
very  sister,  and  all  alone  in  that  dismal  wood, 
too.  Depend  upon't  there's  a  whole  gang  o' 
them  lurkin'  yonder.  Have  you  never  heard 
of  them  as  kidnaps  children,  missie  ?  Why, 
they'd  take  you  for  the  sake  of  your  pretty 
curls,  if  for  nothing  else.  A  nice  endin'  that 
would  be  for  you,  Miss  Clifford !  "  and  Ellis 
stitched  away  in  high  indignation,  as  she  dwelt 
on  the  alarming  picture  that  she  had  conjured 
up,  while  Blanche  called  to  mind  some  of  the 
stories  which  she  had  read  of  gypsies  who  had 
run  off  with  children.  It  seemed  to  her,  how- 
ever, that  any  excitement  would  be  preferable 
to  a  time  of  dulness  like  the  present ;  and  she 
came  to  the  conclusion  that  the  kidnapped 
children  must  have,  on  the  whole,  rather  a  nice 
time  of  it  in  the  greenwood,  and  feel  sorry 
when  they  are  recaptured  by  their  anxious  rel- 
atives, and  sent  back  to  their  school-rooms. 

Ellis  went  on  stitching  in  dumb  silence, 
feeling  displeased  that  her  warnings  seemed  to 


78  MORAG.    . 

be  treated  so  lightly,  and  Blanche,  finding 
these  circumstances  far  from  lively,  glided 
away.  After  roaming  through  the  winding 
passages  and  turret  stairs,  in  the  hope  of  find- 
ing some  variety,  she  lighted  at  last  on  a  quaint, 
little  room,  which  had  evidently  been  unmo- 
lested by  charwoman  or  housemaid  for  many  a 
day.  Its  dusty  desolation,  however,  quite  suit- 
ed Blanche's  present  disconsolate  frame  of 
mind.  She  managed  to  undo  the  rusty  fasten- 
ings of  the  narrow  window,  and  coiling  herself 
into  the  deep  stone  embrasure,  she  looked 
dreamily  out  on  the  moorland.  The  storm 
seemed  at  last  to  have  almost  spent  itself. 
Blanche  could  catch  glimpses  of  the  river, 
which  still  lashed  itself  into  wild  white  foam 
as  it  hurried  along;  but  the  sunlight  was  shim- 
mering upon  it  now.  The  wind  had  fallen,  the 
great  pine-trees  creaked  and  swung  no  longer, 
and  the  gray  sheets  of  mist,  which  seemed  so 
stagnant  a  few  hours  before,  were  now  slowly 
creeping  from  the  hills,  and  making  way  for 
the  clear  shining  after  rain. 

Blanche  sat  watching  the  changing  land- 
scape from  her  dusty  nook,  with  the  pale 
sunlight  glinting  in  upon  her;  and  as  she 
gazed,  all  the  discontented,  restless  thoughts 
seemed  to  vanish  from  her  heart,  disappearing 


A  DISCOVERY,  79 


like  the  gloomy  mists  which  had  been  shroud- 
ing the  pleasant  hillsides.  At  last,  after  she 
had  sat  perched  in  her  watch-tower  for  several 
hours,  she  fancied  she  heard  her  father's  voice 
in  the  court-yard  below,  and  she  ran  to  meet 
him.  Mr.  Clifford  was  standing  with  all  his 
wet  wrappings  when  she  reached  the  hall. 
"  O  papa  !  how  very  funny  you  do  look  !  You 
are  just  as  wet  as  Chance  when  he  comes  out 
of  the  water." 

"Well,  I'm  wet  enough,  to  be  sure.  But 
you  should  see  what  a  wonderful  little  speci- 
men of  the  aborigines  I've  fished  up,  Blanchie. 
Come  along,  and  I'll  tell  you  the  tale  while 
I  warm  myself." 

Blanche  followed  into  the  library  with 
some  curiosity.  She  had  rather  hazy  ideas 
of  what  the  "  aborigines"  might  mean,  but  she 
concluded  that  it  must  be  some  sort  of  trout 
taken  from  the  river  during  the  storm. 

The  Major  had  returned  home  some  time 
ago,  and  was  comfortably  seated  in  his  arm- 
chair by  the  library  fire,  so  Blanche  had  to 
wait,  with  as  much  patience  as  she  could 
muster,  till  Mr.  Clifford  explained  what  had 
detained  him.  The  other  gentlemen  had  gone 
on  to  see  the  Linn,  he  said,  but  as  he  wanted 
to  have  some  fishing  next  day,  he  thought 


80  MORAG. 

it  would  be  well  to  see  the  keeper,  and  ar- 
range  the  matter  before  returning  home. 

"  I  had  been  to  the  kennels  once  before," 
continued  Mr.  Clifford,  "and  knew  that  the 
keeper  lived  not  far  from  them.  But  I  had 
no  end  of  bother  in  finding  the  place,  though 
there  it  was  suspended  above  me  all  the 
while.  I  set  out  to  go  down  the  hill  again, 
giving  up  the  search  in  despair,  when  I  no- 
ticed that  smoke  came  from  a  wretched  shell 
of  a  hut,  perched  on  the  corner  of  a  crag.  And 
this  turned  out  to  be  Dingwall's  abode.  I 
really  wonder  his  Grace  doesn't  house  his  ten- 
ants better." 

"But  what  about  the  creature  you  fished 
up,  papa  ? "  asked  Blanche,  fearing  that  the 
conversation  was  going  take  too  abstract  a  turn. 
"  You  promised  to  tell  me,  you  know." 

"  Ah !  Blanche,  I  see  you're  all  eyes  and 
ears.  Well,  I'm  just  coming  to  that  now.  I 
knocked  at  the  door  of  this  miserable  erection, 
but  no  answer  came ;  and,  as  it  was  pouring 
rain,  I  did  not  feel  inclined  to  wait  long,  so  I 
lifted  the  latch  and  looked  in.  Dingwall  evi- 
dently was  not  at  home.  Indeed,  I  should  say 
he  was  quite  as  comfortable  among  the  heather 
as  at  his  own  fireside,  in  the  circumstances. 
The  rain  was  dropping  in  from  the  roof  in  all 


A  DISCOVERY.  81 


directions,  and  it  was  evidently  its  habit  to  do 
so,  for  it  seemed  to  have  excavated  reservoirs 
for  itself  along  the  earthen  floor.  The  only 
soul  in  the  hut  was  a  wretched  atom  of  a 
girl,  who,  nothing  daunted  by  this  damp  state 
of  matters,  was  splashing  contentedly  through 
the  wet  floor  with  her  little  bare  feet,  trying  to 
spoon  away  the  water  in  the  pools.  Such  a 
funny  little  thing  it  was.  You  should  have 
seen  her,  Blanchie,  as  she  stood  looking  aft  me, 
with  her  great  eyes  that  peeped  out  from  a 
tangled  mass  of  black  locks.  But  I  daresay 
I  looked  rather  an  alarming  apparition  in 
my  waterproof  and  umbrella,  which  I  had  the 
prudence  to  keep  over  my  head.  She  looked 
terrified  for  a  moment,  but  she  did  not  forget 
to  make  her  rags  touch  the  soaking  floor  in  a 
low  curtsey,  and  offered  in  the  sweetest  voice 
to  run  for  her  father,  who  was  '  watchin'  the 
spate?  she  said.  You  should  have  seen  her, 
Blanchie ;  it  would  have  quite  suited  your  love 
for  the  sensational." 

The  portrait  was  photographic ;  Blanche's 
heart  began  to  beat,  for  she  felt  certain  that 
she  had  seen  her. 

"  O  papa  !  do  tell  me,  did  she  really  go  away 
to  the  river  to  look  for  her  father  ?  Do  tell  rne, 
please,"  said  Blanche,  in  eager  tones. 


82  MORAG. 

"  "Well,  seeing  that  she  didn't  seem  to  mind 
the  weather,  and  wasn't  likely  to  catch  cold,  I 
thought  I  might  as  well  bring  her  here  for  a 
little,  since  her  father  was  not  at  home,  and 
put  her  under  old  "Worthy's  care,  to  be  warmed 
and  fed  and  generally  comforted.  I  couldn't 
get  her  to  open  her  mouth  again,  but  she  fol- 
lowed me  down  the  hill  on  my  invitation." 

"  O  papa  !  you  don't  mean  to  say  that  she 
is  with  Mrs.  "Worthy  now  ?  "  and  without  wait- 
ing for  a  reply,  off  Blanche  bounded  in  search 
of  the  housekeeper's  room.  And  there,  in 
front  of  a  bright  fire,  seated  in  a  comfortable 
arm-chair,  looking  serenely  happy  in  the  midst 
of  such  unwonted  comforts,  sat  Morag. 

"  It  is  really  you !  Of  course  1  knew  it 
was,"  exclaimed  Blanche,  rather  incoherently, 
as  she  sprang  forward  with  a  cry  of  delight. 

Morag  rose  with  an  eager  bewildered  look 
on  her  face,  but  she  did  not  speak,  while  the 
impulsive  little  Blanche  threw  her  arms  round 
the  tangled  locks,  and  kissed  the  brown  cheek. 

"  ()  Morag !  I'm  so  very  glad  to  see  you 
again.  I've  been  so  sorry  all  day  that  I  did 
not  go  to  meet  you  in  the  pine  forest  yester- 
day. So,  you  are  the  keeper's  daughter,"  and 
a  shadow  of  vexation  stole  across  Blanche's 
sunny  face,  for  the  remembrance  of  the  dark, 


A  DISCOVERY.  83 


sinister-looking  man  whom  she  had  disliked 
rose  before  her,  and  she  felt  a  pang  of  regret 
that  he  should  be  connected  with  Morag. 

"  I'm  so  glad  papa  brought  you  here,  Mo- 
rag.  "What  a  horrid  house  you  must  have  to 
live  in  !  Papa-  says  that  it's  a  great  shame  of 
somebody — I  forget  who.  I  do  wish  that  the 
sun  might  always  shine,  and  then  you  could  sit 
among  those  delicious  pine-trees,  instead  of 
in-doors,"  and  Blanche  went  on  in  a  silvery  tor- 
rent of  words,  while  Morag  gazed  at  her,  eag- 
erly listening  in  glad  silence. 

Mrs.  Worthy,  who  was  seated  opposite  in  her 
arm-chair,  reading  the  newspaper,  viewed  this 
scene  through  her  spectacles  with  unfeigned  as- 
tonishment. 

"Bless  my  soul,  Miss  Clifford,  you  seem 
quite  intimate  like  already !  The  like  of  you 
for  'aving  a  warm  'art  to  all  critters,  I  never 
did  see,"  said  that  worthy  personage  rubbing 
her  spectacles,  as  if  her  old  eyes  had  deceived 
her.  She  was  a  kindly  woman,  and  had  been 
delighted  to  show  all  hospitality  to  the  poor 
little  drenched  vagrant ;  but  to  see  Miss  Clif- 
ford on  terms  of  seemingly  old  and  intimate 
friendship  was  more  than  she  could  compre- 
hend. 

"Oh  !  it's  all  right,  Mrs.  Worthy.     I  know 


84  MORAG. 

Morag  quite  well ;  we  met  in  the  pine  forest. 
But  where  is  Ellis  ?  has  she  been  here  ? "  And 
Blanche  bounded  off  in  triumph  to  tell  her 
maid  that  the  dangerous  little  gypsy  of  the 
greenwood  was  seated  in  the  housekeeper's  own 
private  sanctum,  having  tea  and  guttered  toast, 
by  her  papa's  special  invitation  too.  Ellis  did 
not  seem  so  much  impressed  by  this  wonderful 
piece  of  news  as  Blanche  expected,  and  loudly 
disapproved  of  the  proposal  which  followed, 
namely,  that  one  of  Blanche's  dresses  should 
be  given  to  the  little  damsel  to  replace  the  tat- 
tered tartan. 

"  'Deed,  missie,  I'll  not  listen  to  such  a  thing 
for  nobody.  Your  frocks  are  all  much  too  good 
for  the  likes  of  her,  what  I've  brought  here. 
If  you'd  told  me  you  were  agoin'  to  clothe  all 
the  poor  of  the  parish,  I  might  have  brought 
something  from  your  boxes  of  old  clothes  at 
home." 

"I'm  sure  you  might  find  something,  if 
you  only  wanted,"  pleaded  Blanche. 

At  that  moment  Miss  Prosser's  voice  was 
heard  calling  Ellis,  and  Blanche  overheard  her 
governess  say  to  the  maid  presently,  "  Oh,  by 
the  by,  Ellis,  the  master  wants  you  to  find  a 
frock  of  Miss  Clifford's  for  a  little  urchin  who 
has  been  picked  up  in  the  Glen  somewhere, 


A  DISCOVERY.  85 


and  appears  to  be  in  a  very  destitute  condition, 
from  all  accounts.  You  had  better  select  some- 
thing suitable.  I  believe  she  is  in  the  house- 
keeper's room  now ;  so  you  can  go  and  see 
what  she  looks  like.  Have  you  anything  that 
will  suit  the  creature,  I  wonder  ? " 

"  Yes,  ma'am.  There's  the  crimson  dress, 
that  will  do.  Missie  will  never  wear  it  again." 

"  Well,  I  dare  say  not,  though  certainly  it 
does  seem  much  too  good  for  a  child  of  the  de- 
scription. Where  is  Miss  Clifford  ?  Have  you 
seen  her  ?  I've  been  looking  for  her  for  the  last 
half  hour,  but  I  can't  find  her  anywhere." 

"  She's  just  going  to  get  dressed  for  the 
evening,  ma'am,"  replied  Ellis,  evasively,  not 
indicating  that  she  was  within  call,  nor  hinting 
at  her  little  mistress'  previous  knowledge  of 
Mr.  Clifford's  protegee  ;  and  finally  Miss  Pros- 
ser  retreated  to  perform  her  own  toilette. 
Blanche  was  hovering  about  in  a  great  glee, 
having  heard  the  result  of  the  conversation. 

"  Oh !  you  dear  good  Ellis  !  So  you  are 
going  to  find  a  dress  for  Morag  after  all  ?  I 
knew  you  would.  Do  let  me  take  it  to  her." 

The  crimson  garment  was  at  length  forth- 
coming, in  the  midst  of  many  grumblings  on 
Ellis's  part ;  and  Blanche,  accompanied  by  her 
maid,  set  out  in  procession  towards  the  house- 


86  MO  RAG. 

keeper's  room.  They  found  Morag  alone ;  she 
had  risen  from  her  seat  in  the  big  arm-chair, 
and  was  now  standing  at  a  small  table  on  which 
the  housekeeper's  books  lay.  An  illustrated 
edition  of  the  "  Pilgrim's  Progress1'  was  lyjng 
open,  and  when  Blanche  walked  in,  Morag  was 
looking  intently  at  one  of  the  pictures.  She 
started  and  closed  the  book  with  an  almost 
guilty  look,  and  when  she  caught  a  glimpse 
of  Ellis,  her  little  brown  cheek  flushed  all  over, 
for  she  had  not  forgotten  her  loud-spoken  sus- 
picions regarding  her.  Gliding  up  to  Blanche, 
she  said  softly — 

"  I'll  neecU  to  be  goin'  hame,  noo,  leddy. 
Father  will  be  back,  and  his  supper  maun  be 
ready ;  and  there's  a  heap  to  do  forby." 

"  But  you  don't  really  mean  to  say,  Morag, 
that  you  get  supper  ready,  and  do  everything  ? 
"Why  !  where's  your  mother,  or  the  servant  ?  " 

Morag's  eyes  twinkled,  and  she  laughed  her 
rare  merry  laugh  at  Blanche's  look  of  astonish- 
ment. 

"  We  ha  vena  got  no  servant.  I'm  thinkin' 
they're  no  but  for  gentry.  My  mother  deid 
lang  syne.  I  never  min'  upo'  seein'  her.  There's 
no  jist  terrible  muckle  work,  except  whiles, 
when  the  weet  comes  in,  like  the  nicht." 

"  I  should  like  so  to  go  and  see  you,  Morag. 


A  DISCOVERY.  87 


Do  you  think  I  may  some  time  ? ''  asked 
Blanche,  filled  with  admiration  at  the  thought 
of  the  usefulness  of  a  little  girl  smaller  than 
herself. 

"The  floor  is  some  weet  the  nicht,  I'm 
thinkin',"  replied  Morag,  glancing  doubtfully 
at  Ellis. 

"Oh!  but  I  didn't  mean  to-night.  Per- 
haps one  day  soon,  when  the  sun  shines,  and 
your  father  is  at  the  moors  with  papa,"  added 
Blanche,  for  she  had  not  forgotten  the  dark- 
looking  keeper ;  and  she  did  not  think  that  she 
should  like  to  find  him  at  home. 

Meanwhile,  Ellis  had  been  standing  with 
the  dress  in  her  hand,  listening  to  the  conversa- 
tion. Her  closer  inspection  of  Morag  rather 
softened  her  towards  the  little  native,  with 
regard  to  whom  she  had  been  harboring  such 
dark  suspicions.  She  began  to  make  sundry 
signs,  to  the  effect  that  her  little  mistress 
should  now  proceed  to  present  the  dress.  But 
somehow,  at  this  juncture  Blanche  seemed 
suddenly  seized  with  a  fit  of  shyness.  Morag 
certainly  appeared  to  stand  greatly  in  need  of 
a  new  garment,  but  still  Blanche  felt  in  doubt 
whether  she  would  care  to  receive  one.  She 
was  so  unlike  any  poor  person  she  had  ever 
seen — so  useful,  so  brave,  so  complete  in  her- 


88  MO  RAG. 

self.  At  last  Ellis  got  tired  of  waiting  for 
Blanche,  and  unfolding  the  dress,  she  held  it 
up  with  a  flourish  and  a  toss  of  her  head, 
saying — 

"  Now,  little  girl,  Miss  Clifford  is  rjdnd 
enough  to  give  you  this  beautiful  frock.  See 
you  say  '  Thank  you'  for  it,  and  take  good 
care  of  it  too.  I  declare  it  looks  as  good  as 
the  day  it  was  bought ! "  added  Ellis,  casting 
regretful  glances  on  the  garment,  as  she  laid 
it  on  the  table  beside  Morag.  The  little  girl 
stood  looking  at  the  gift  with  extreme  astonish- 
ment for  several  minutes,  and  then,  glancing 
at  Blanche,  she  went  slowly  up  to  her,  and 
said  in  a  low  tone — 

"  Thank  you  kindly,  leddy.  But  I  would 
jist  be  spoilin'  a  braw  goon  like  that.  It's  no 
for  the  like  o'  me." 

"  Oh !  but  indeed,  Morag,  dear,  you  must 
wear  it.  I  don't  think  it  a  bit  too  good  for 
you  to  wear  on  week-days ;  but  if  you  like  you 
can  keep  it  for  Sunday,  you  know.  It  used  to 
be  my  church-frock,  wasn't  it,  Ellis  ? " 

"Ay,  maybe.     But  it's  no  for  the  like  o' 
me.     I  dinna  never  gang  to  the  kirk  forby,' 
added   Morag,  in  a  low,  melancholy  tone,   as 
Ellis  left  the  room  to  discuss  with  Mrs.  "Wor- 
thy the  strange  little  native  who  did  not  seem 


A  DISCOVERY.  89 

to  care  for  the  grand  frock,  although  she  was 
in  such  rags. 

"  I  would  like  richt  weel  to  ken  what  this 
bit  bonnie  picter  is,"  said  Morag,  as  she  turned 
towards  the  little  table,  on  which  the  open 
"Pilgrim's  Progress"  was  still  lying,  and 
pointed  to  one  of  the  illustrations  towards  the 
end  of  the  first  part.  Blanche  had  not  read 
the  "Pilgrim's  Progress,"  and  she  did  not 
know  what  the  picture  meant  at  the  first 
glance.  There  was  an  expanse  of  dark  rip- 
pling water,  and  struggling  through  it  were 
two  men.  One  of  them  looked  on  the  point  of 
sinking,  while  the  other  seemed  to  be  trying 
to  hold  him  up,  and  pointed  to  a  shining  city, 
which  was  lying  far  away  in  the  sun.  Seeing 
how  eager  Morag  was  to  know  what  it  all 
meant,  Blanche  began  to  feel  interested ;  after 
turning  some  pages,  she  said — "  Oh !  I  see 
now.  That  town  in  the  light,  far  off,  is  heaven, 
and  those  men  must  be  trying  to  get  there,  I 
suppose.  But  I'll  ask  Mrs.  Worthy  to  lend 
me  this  book,  and  shall  try  and  find  out  all 
about  it  before  I  come  to  the  pine-forest  next 
time,  Morag." 

"  Ye'll  be  able  to  read  a'  books,  Pm  think- 
in',  leddy,"  said  Morag,  looking  wistfully  at 
Blanche,  as  she  glanced  at  the  pages. 


90  MORAG. 

"  Oh,  yes,  of  course,  I  can  read  any  book 
that  I  care  to  read.  But,  indeed,  Morag,  I'm 
not  very  fond  of  reading,"  added  Blanche,  in  a 
confidential  whisper,  as  if  the  fact  were  a  very 
shocking  revelation.  "  To  be  sure,  I  do  like  a 
few  story-books  very  much,  indeed ;  but  then 
Miss  Prosser  does  not  allow  me  to  read  many. 
I've  got  some  delicious  story-books  at  home,  in 
London.  I  wish  I  had  them  here,  and  I  should 
lend  them  to  you,  if  you  are  fond  of  reading. 
I  don't  think  I  have  anything  except  those 
lesson-books  here.  The  '  History  of  England ' 
is  rather  interesting  sometimes,  by  the  by. 
Perhaps  you  might  like  it.  There  are  lots  of 
nice  stories  here  and  there.  Miss  Prosser  says 
I  like  to  read  them  because  they  are  stories, 
and  not  for  the  sake  of  the  facts  and  the  dates, 
and  I  suppose  that  is  very  wrong,"  sighed 
Blanche,  penitently. 

Morag  stood  listening  in  silent  wonder. 
The  conversation  had  gone  far  beyond  her 
depth,  poor  little  woman!  and  she  was  about 
to  explain  that  it  was  so,  when  Blanche  con- 
tinued— 

"  What  books  do  you  like  best,  Morag  ?  I 
like  fairy-stories  much  best — something  about 
dragons,  and  giants,  and  all  that,  kind  of  thing, 
you  know." 


A  DISCOVERY.  91 


Morag's  cheek  flushed  crimson  as  she  re- 
plied— 

"  A'  books  look  richt  bonnie  to  me,  leddy, 
but  I'm  no  fit  to  read  none  o'  them." 

Blanche  felt  considerable  astonishment  at 
this  disclosure.  But,  noticing  her  companion's 
embarrassment,  she  tried  to  receive  it  unmoved, 
and  said,  rather  patronizingly — 

"Ah!  well,  Morag,  but  you  can  do  so 
many  useful  things  besides." 

Morag  smiled.  Her  quick  perceptions  de- 
tected Blanche's  kindly  attempt  to  cover  her 
embarrassment  with  a  compliment.  For  now 
that  the  critical  eyes  of  the  smart  maid  were 
withdrawn,  she  began  to  feel  more  at  ease,  and 
at  last  ventured  to  ask  a  question,  to  which  she 
had  been  very  anxious  to  get  an  answer  since 
that  morning  when  she  stood  listening  to 
Blanche's  warblings  among  the  pines. 

"  Yon  was  a  richt  bonnie  sang  ye  were 
singin'  i'  the  fir-wood,  leddy.  Will  the  Lord 
that  died  on  the  hill  be  ane  o'  the  chieftains 
that  used  to  bide  lang  syne  i'  the  castle  ? " 

"  I'm  sure  I  quite  forget  what  song  I  was 
singing,  I  know  so  many.  But  I  don't  think  I 
do  know  one  about  a  chieftain,  though,"  said 
Blanche,  shaking  her  curls  in  perplexity. 

"  It  tellt  aboot  a  good  Lord  that  deed  upo'  a 


92  MORA  G. 

green  hill,  and  suffered  terrible,  I'm  thinkin'. 
I  heard  a'  the  words  ye  were  singin'  richt  plain 
like  among  the  firs." 

"  Oh !  I  know  now  !  Why,  that  isn't  a 
song,  Morag — it's  a  hymn.  It  was  Jesus 
Christ,  of  course,  '  who  suffered  under  Pontius 
Pilate,  was  crucified,  dead,  and  buried,'  the 
Creed  says,  you  know." 

This  statement  did  not  seem  in  any  degree 
to  diminish  Morag's  perplexity,  and  presently 
she  said — 

"  Maybe  ye  would  jist  say  ower  the  bonnie 
words  til  me  ?  "  Blanche  repeated  the  hymn 
in  her  clear,  silvery  tones,  and  after  she  had 
finished,  Morag  gave  a  little  sigh  as  she  said — 
"It's  richt  bonnie.  I  like  weel  to  hear  ye 
tell't  ower.  Is't  a  real  true  story,  leddy?  " 

"  Of  course  it's  true,  Morag.  Jesus  Christ 
died  on  the  cross,  you  know.  But  it's  a  very 
long  time  ago,  in  the  Holy  Land.  You  can 
find  all  about  it  in  the  Bible.  Ah !  but  I 
quite  forgot,"  said  Blanche,  flushing  in  her 
turn  ;  and  then,  after  a  minute,  she  contin- 
ued— 

"Morag,  I  have  thought  of  something. 
"Would  you  like  Miss  Prosser  to  teach  you  to 
read  ?  I  think  I'll  ask  her.  But  she  is  rather 
particular  about  some  things,"  added  Blanche, 


A  DISCOVERY.  93 


sighing  despondently,  as  if  she  began  to  doubt 
the  pleasantness  of  that  arrangement ;  and  pres- 
ently she  exclaimed  eagerly — "  O  Morag  !  I 
wonder  if  1  could  teach  you  to  read  ?  It  would 
be  such  fun !  I  would  bring  all  my  lesson- 
books  to  the  pine  forest,  and  we  would  spread 
them  on  the  flat  grey  rock,  and  I  would  teach 
you  everything  that  I  know.  "Wouldn't  it  be 
nice?''  and  Blanche  clapped  her  hands  with 
delight  at  the  thought. 

Morag's  face  glowed  with  brightness  as  she 
listened  to  this  proposal,  and  she  was  about  to 
make  some  reply  when  Ellis  entered  the  room. 
She  came  to  say  that  Miss  Prosser  was  already 
in  the  drawing-room,  and  that  she  wondered 
very  much  what  had  become  of  Miss  Blanche, 
and  Ellis  insisted  that  she  should  come  and 
get  dressed  without  a  moment's  further  delay. 
Mrs.  Worthy  entered  at  that  moment  with  a 
trayf  ul  of  good  things  for  Morag ;  and  Blanche, 
after  giving  strict  injunctions  to  her  little 
friend  not  to  go  home  till  she  had  seen  her 
again,  followed  Ellis  to  get  arrayed  for  the 
evening. 

The  storm  had  quite  vanished  now,  and  the 
evening  was  bright  and  calm.  All  the  weird 
noises  were  silent,  and  a  delicious  breeze  came 
stealing  across  the  moorland  balmy  with  the 


94  MORAG. 

breath  of  pine  and  birch,  and  all  manner  of 
delightful,  thymy  fragrance. 

Mr.  Clifford  and  his  guests  were  sauntering 
up  and  down  the  birch-walk  near  the  castle, 
talking  and  smoking  their  cigars,  when  Blanche 
joined  them. 

"  Well,  pussy,  so  I  hear  you  had  already 
made  the  acquaintance  of  my  protegee  ?  Mrs. 
Worthy  tells  me  that  you  gave  her  quite  a 
gushing  reception.  How  in  the  world  did  you 
foregather  ?  Till  this  afternoon,  I  certainly  was 
not  well  enough  versed  in  Dingwall's  family 
history  to  know  that  he  had  a  daughter,"  said 
Mr.  Clifford. 

"  Yes,  Blanche,  dear,  where  did  you  meet 
the  creature  ? "  chimed  in  Miss  Prosser,  com- 
ing, but  not  to  the  rescue.  "  It  can  only  have 
been  on  that  morning  when  I  allowed  you  to 
go  out  alone.  And  you  know  you  promised 
not  to  get  into  mischief  of  any  kind.  I  won- 
der when  you  will  gain  the  desirable  self- 
respect  which  will  save  you  from  making 
friends  of  the  most  unsuitable  persons,  Blanche, 
dear !  "  added  the  governess,  looking  rather  se- 
verely at  the  little  girl,  who  stood  pondering 
whether  she  should  reveal  the  circumstances 
of  her  acquaintance  with  Morag,  but  she  had 
a  vague  fear  lest  the  window-scene  might  com- 


A  DISCOVERY.  95 


promise  the  respectability  of  her  little  friend, 
in  some  minds,  so  she  resolved  to  hold  her 
peace.  Her  father  noticed  her  distressed  face, 
and  stroking  her  curls,  said,  laughingly — 

"  Don't  be  ashamed  of  your  new  acquaint- 
ance, Blanchie.  I  assure  you,  Miss  Prosser, 
she  is  a  most  exemplary  little  savage  You 
should  have  seen  her  at  work  in  her  hut  to- 
day !  I  wonder  if  she  is  still  in  old  worthy's 
keeping.  You  might  run  and  see,  Blanche, 
and  bring  her  here  if  she  is.  I  should  like 
you  to  have  a  look  of  the  odd  little  atom,  Miss 
Prosser." 

"  Is  that  the  urchin  you  found  sticking  in 
the  mud-floor,  Clifford  ?  "  asked  one  of  the  gen- 
tlemen, joining  them.  "  She  must  be  quite 
a  natural  curiosity — a  sort  of  fungus,  I  should 
imagine.  Do  let's  have  a  look  at  her." 

So  Blanche  was  dispatched,  rather  unwill- 
ingly, to  fetch  Morag.  She  was  very  glad  to 
be  allowed  to  go  back  to  her  again,  but  she 
could  not  help  feeling  that  it  was  rather  a 
doubtful  mission  on  which  she  had  been  sent, 
and  she  wondered  whether  it  was  quite  kind 
to  bring  the  shy  little  mountain  maiden  into 
the  presence  of  so  many  strangers. 

Mr.  Clifford  and  his  party  were  standing 
together  looking  at  a  gorgeous  rainbow  which 


90  MO  RAG. 

had  suddenly  spanned  the  Glen  when  the  chil- 
dren appeared  in  sight.  They  came  slowly 
along,  through  the  feathery  birk-trees,  which 
were  all  flooded  by  the  delicate  rainbow  tints. 
A  pretty  picture  they  made,  Mr.  Clifford 
thought,  as  he  went  forward  to  meet  them  among 
the  white  stems.  The  fair,  high-born  child  in 
her  white  shimmering  dress,  with  her  graceful 
movements,  her  delicate,  finely-cut  features, 
her  calm  white  brow,  and  deep  dreamy,  blue 
eyes,  and  at  her  side  the  little  dark,  keen  Celt, 
with  her  black  matted  locks,  her  bright  dark 
eyes,  and  her  short  firmly-knit  limbs.  Blanche's 
arm  was  thrown  lovingly  around  Morag,  and 
one  of  her  long  fair  curls  rested  on  the  little 
brown  neck  of  the  mountain  maiden,  who  tim- 
idly surveyed  the  formidable  group  in  front. 
Blanche  ran  to  her  papa  to  whisper  that  Morag 
wanted  to  go  home  very  much  now,  to  make 
supper  ready  for  her  father,  so  that  she  must 
not  be  kept  much  longer,  and  might  she  ask  her 
to  come  back  to-morrow !  Deprived  of  her 
bonnie  wee  leddy's  protecting  arm,  Morag  felt 
very  forlorn.  The  whole  party  were  now  in 
view,  and  a  very  terrible  array  they  seemed 
to  the  little  mountaineer. 

There  stood  Miss  Prosser  in  gay  flowing 
attire ;  and  there  were  the  gentlemen  whom 


A  DISCCVERY. 


she  had  watched  from  afar  on  their  way  to  the 
moors;  but  they  seemed  doubly  formidable 
now  in  evening  dress,  as  they  stood  talking  and 
laughing  together.  Even  the  bonnie  wee 
leddy,  since  she  has  glided  to  her  papa's  side, 
appeared  again  to  have  taken  her  place  in  an 
exalted  fairy  region,  and  poor  Morag  felt  alone, 
without  prop  or  stay.  She  seemed  seized  by  a 
sudden  panic,  and,  casting  a  bewildered  glance 
round  about  her,  she  turned  and  darted  away 
at  full  speed  through  the  gleaming  birch  stems, 
and  in  a  moment  she  was  out  of  sight. 

"  Bless  my  soul,  what  a  droll  little  monkey  !  " 
exclaimed  the  old  Major,  dropping  his  eyeglass. 
"  I  expect  to  see  her  climb  a  tree  directly  and 
take  to  cracking  nuts — eh  !  Blanche  ? '' 

"Poor  little  Morag!  she  is  so  shy  and 
frightened :  that's  just  how  she  did  before. 
I'll  tell  you  all  about  it  afterwards,  papa," 
whispered  Blanche,  as  she  was  about  to  dart 
off  in  vain  pursuit  of  her  scared  friend. 

"  No,  Blanchie,  you  must  not  follow  her," 
said  Mr.  Clifford,  calling  her  back.  "  She  did 
look  very  frightened,  poor  little  atom  !  It's 
best  to  let  her  go  home.  Take  counsel  from 
your  sage  nursery-rhyme,  '  Leave  her  alone  and 
she'll  come  back,  and  bring  her  tails  behind 
her.1  Little  Bo-peep  must  have  patience,  you 
7 


68  MO  RAG. 

know.  Besides,  it's  quite  time  for  you  to  go 
indoors,  child,"  he  added,  as  Blanche  shivered. 
"Good  night,  darling!  Don't  distress  your- 
self about  your  little  elfish  friend ;  she  will 
doubtless  turn  up  to-morrow." 

M  )rag  did  not  halt  in  her  sudden  flight  till 
she  had  got  beyond  the  castle  grounds,  and 
found  herself  once  more  on  her  solitary  familiar 
heath.  Then  she  began  to  slacken  her  pace  a 
little ;  and  now  that  she  had  time  to  ponder 
the  matter  over,  she  thought  that  perhaps,  after 
all,  it  was  very  foolish  to  run  away  as  she  had 
done.  These  grand  ladies  and  gentlemen  did 
not  mean  to  do  her  any  harm  ;  and  surely  she 
might  have  trusted  the  bonnie  leddy  who  had 
been  so  kind.  Perhaps  she  might  be  angry: 
now,  and  would  never  come  to  the  fir-wood,  as 
she  had  promised  to  do,  thought  Morag,  rue- 
fully. Still,  she  resolved  that  she  would  go 
every  morning  after  her  work  at  the  hut  was 
done,  and  watch  by  the  lichen-spotted  rock  in 
the  fir-wood,  and  perhaps  one  day  she  might 
see  her  coming  through  the  trees  again ;  and 
though  it  seemed  too  good  to  be  true,  perhaps 
>ihe  might  be  carrying  some  of  those  beautiful 
books,  of  which  Morag  had  caught  a  glimpse 
through  the  school-room  window  of  the  old 
castle. 


A  DISCOVERY,  99 


Blanche's  promise  that  she  would  teach  her 
to  read  was  the  greatest  event  of  that  eventful 
day,  and  the  thought  of  it  had  kept  singing  at 
Morag' s  heart ;  for  a  long  time  it  had  been  the 
dearest  wish  of  her  heart  that  she  might  under- 
stand the  hitherto  mysterious  contents  of  the 
musty  old  collection  of  books  which  lay  buried 
in  the  depths  of  her  mother's  big  kist,  and  now 
at  last  there  seemed  a  chance  of  that  hope  being 
realized  if  she  had  not  thrown  it  away  by  her 
foolish  flight ;  and  the  little  girl  sighed  as  she 
thought  of  the  sad  possibility. 

Morag  had  been  sauntering  on,  lost  in  hei 
own  meditations,  since  she  felt  herself  at  a  safe 
distance  from  the  castle.  She  had  climbed 
halfway  up  the  steep  hill  which  led  to  her 
home  among  the  crags,  when  she  turned  to  see 
if  she  could  discover  any  trace  of  her  father  on 
his  homeward  way. 

The  sky  was  cold  and  grey  in  the  direction 
of  the  hut  where  Morag's  steps  had  been  bent, 
but  as  she  turned  westward  all  was  bright  arid 
glowing,  and  Morag  wondered  that  she  had  not 
thought  of  looking  before,  for  she  loved  cloud- 
land  scenes,  and  had  watched  many  a  sunset 
and  sunrise  from  her  home  among;  the  cra^s. 

O  O 

It  was  one  of  those  intensely  golden  sunsets 
that  come  after  storms.     The  clouds  were  clus- 


100  MO  RAG, 

tering  gorgeous  in  their  coloring,  and  change- 
ful in  their  hues,  and  at  every  moment  they 
seemed  to  open  vistas  with  brighter  colors  and 
intenser  lights  within.  And  as  Morag  sat  arid 
watched  the  sky,  she  remembered  the  picture 
which  she  had  seen  in  the  beautiful  book  at  the 
castle.  The  bright  expanse  round  which  the 
gold  and  crimson  clouds  were  clustering  re- 
minded her  of  the  city  lying  in  the  light,  in 
the  picture.  She  thought  of  the  dark  rippling 
water,  and  the  two  men  who  were  struggling 
through  it,  and  looked  as  if  they  would  be 
drowned.  They  must  have  been  trying  to 
reach  the  shining  city  surely,  and  Morag  hoped 
they  got  there  all  safe,  for  the  water  looked 
dark  and  cold. 

At  last  the  amber  clouds  slowly  closed  on 
the  inner  sunset  glories,  like  ponderous  gates 
shutting  out  the  dark  night  from  a  bright 
scene,  Morag  thought,  as  she  rose  from  the 
bank,  and  began  to  take  her  solitary  way  to 
her  rocky  home.  Presently  she  heard  her 
father's  whistle,  and  turning  round,  she  saw 
him  climbing  the  hill  behind  her.  She  ran 
back  to  meet  him,  and  began  eagerly  to  nar- 
rate her  chronicle  of  this  eventful  afternoon. 

The  keeper  had  never  heard  his  daughter 
so  eloquent  before,  and  he  listened  with  his 


A  DISCOVERY.  101 


most  well-pleased  smile  to  all  that  she  had  to 
tell  about  her  visit  to  the  castle.  Hojv  the 
gentleman  had  come  to  the  hut,  and  had  taken 
her  away ;  and  how  he  carried  a  beautiful 
umbrella,  and  held  a  bit  of  it  over  her  head — 
the  first  time  in  her  life  she  had  been  under 
a  canopy  of  the  kind.  And  then  the  beautiful 
room  she  sat  in  was  duly  described,  and  how 
the  bonnie  wee  leddy  had  come  to  her,  and 
been  so  kind.  When  she  came  to  that  part 
of  her  story,  in  which  truth  compelled  her  to 
tell  that  she  had  finished  those  delightful  pro- 
ceedings by  running  away  when  she  was 
brought  before  the  dazzling  company,  she  was 
relieved  to  find  that  her  father  was  not  angry, 
as  she  feared  he  would  be.  He  only  smiled, 
and  said,  "  Ye  needna  hae  been  sae  feert, 
Morag,  my  lass.  They  wouldna  be  meanin' 
to  tak'  a  bite  o'  ye;  but  maybe  they'll  no 
think  the  waur  o'  ye  for  the  like  o'  that ; " 
and  glancing  round,  as  they  entered  the  dreary 
soaking  dwelling,  the  keeper  said,  smiling 
grimly,  "Ye  didiia  speir  if  he  would  tak'  a 
seat,  I'm  thinkin',  lass  ?  What  said  he  aboot 
the  hoose,  Morag  ? "  But  Morag  could  not 
remember  that  Mr.  Clifford  had  made  any 
remark  on  that  sore  subject ;  and  presently 
father  and  daughter  relapsed  into  their  usual 


102  MORAG. 

state  of  dumb  silence,  as  they  went  about  their 
evening  occupations. 

At  last  Morag  crept  away  to  bed,  and  fell 
asleep,  wondering  whether  she  should  really 
see  the  wee  leddy  coming  to  meet  her  next 
morning  at  the  grey  rock  in  the  fir-wood, 
where  she  resolved  she  would  daily  keep  her 
tryst.  During  the  night  she  kept  dreaming 
that  she  was  with  the  bonnie  wee  leddy  in 
dark,  cold  water  somewhere,  and  that  her  arm 
was  around  her,  and  the  beautiful  curls  were 
all  drenched  with  wet.  She  looked  for  the 
golden  city  lying  in  the  sun,  but  she  could 
not  see  it  anywhere,  and  she  began  to  feel 
very  frightened  in  the  dark,  rippling  water, 
when  she  awoke  to  find  the  bright  morning 
light  streaming  in  at  the  little  blindless  win- 
dow of  the  hut,  lighting  up  everything,  and 
sending  its  kind,  warm  rays  on  the  damp 
earthen  floor. 

Morag  sprang  out  of  bed,  and  was  soon 
at  her  morning's  work  with  a  will.  She 
smoothed  her  tangled  locks  as  well  as  the  well- 
nigh  toothless  comb  would  make  them,  and 
after  mending  a  few  of  the  rents  in  her  tat- 
tered garment,  she  looked  anxiously  down, 
in  the  hope  that  she  did  not  look  like  a  tramp 
any  more.  Her  father  had  told  her  that  she 


A  DISCOVERY.  103 


was  a  foolish  lassie  to  have  refused  the  "  gran' 
goon"  that  had  been  offered  to  her ;  but 
Morag  did  not  think  so,  and  felt  perfectly 
satisfied  with  her  own  garment,  if  only  the 
critical  eyes  of  the  smart  maid  would  not  stare 
at  her  so  minutely  again. 

The  keeper  had  gone  to  the  moors  for 
the  day,  and  Morag's  morning  duties  being 
over,  she  began  to  think  of  starting  to  keep 
her  tryst  in  the  fir-wood,  when  she  saw  her 
father  hurrying  up  the  hill  again. 

"  Eh,  Morag,  lass !  but  I  hae  a  gran'  bit 
o'  news  for  ye.  The  maister  wants  ye  to  go 
outby  wi'  the  wee  leddy  this  afternoon;  and 
whiles,  to  tak'  her  by  canny  roads  when  she's 
ridin'  on  her  sheltie.  I'm  thinkin'  you'll  like 
that  job,  my  lass.  Ye  may  awa'  til  the  castle 
as  fast 's  ye  can  rin ;  he  said  '  The  sooner  the 
better;  my  daughter  is  an  impatient  little 
person.'  "  And,  after  this  quotation  from  Mr. 
Clifford,  Dingwall  hurried  down  the  hill  again, 
surrounded  by  the  scrambling  pointers  and 
setters,  leaving  Morag  dumb  with  astonish- 
ment and  delight. 


7L 
K1R8TT  MACPEER80N. 

ORAG  was  at  length  fairly  installed  as 
Blanche's  companion  in  her  rides,  and 
many  a  pleasant  ramble  they  had  to- 
gether in  the  long  bright  autumn  after- 
noons. The  little  mountaineer  was  still  very 
silent  and  reserved;  but  her  propensity  for 
running  away  had  quite  vanished  now,  and 
she  could  laugh  at  the  shy  follies  of  those 
first  days  of  her  acquaintance  with  the  little 
chatelaine.  It  must  be  allowed,  however,  that 
the  daily  intercourse  in  no  degree  diminished 
the  deep  reverence  and  admiration  with  which 
she  regarded  the  bonnie  wee  leddy,  who  had 
seemed  such  a  fairy  princess  when  she  saw 
her  first ;  rather  indeed  these  early  feelings 
were  deepening  into  that  intense,  undying 
devotion  which  is  one  of  the  characteristics 
of  her  race,  and  one  which  has  often  made 
them  faithful  to  death  towards  unworthy, 
thankless  heroes.  Occasionally  the  little  pony 


KIR  STY  MACPHERSON.  105 


Shag  was  left  behind  in  his  stable,  while 
Blanche,  with  her  big  retriever  Chance,  sallied 
forth  to  meet  Morag,  at  the  try  sting-place  in 
the  fir-wood.  These  afternoons  were  golden- 
letter  days  in  little  Morag' s  calendar,  for  then 
the  books  were  brought,  and  as  she  lay  among 
the  soft  moss,  surrounded  by  the  thronging 
pillars  of  pine,  with  their  roof  of  green, 
arched  boughs,  this  child  of  the  mountains 
made  her  first  entrance  to  that  tower  of  learn- 
ing, which,  after  all,  is  only  one  of  the  many 
gateways  to  the  great  temple  of  knowledge. 

Blanche  proved  a  wonderfully  patient, 
though  eager  teacher,  and  never  was  there  a 
more  earnest  student  than  Moras.  Still,  on 

O 

the  whole,  these  lessons,  as  yet,  only  brought 
disappointment.  Her  progress  in  the  art  of 
reading  was  necessarily  slow,  and  could  not  keep 
pace  in  any  degree  with  her  desire  to  know. 
Her  intercourse  with  the  little  English  girl 
had  quite  roused  her  from  her  torpid  state,  and 
the  fragments  of  ideas  which  began  to  dawn, 
set  her  mind  to  work  in  many  wistful  question- 
ings. 

Blanche  would  often  shake  her  curls  in  per- 
plexity at  her  friend's  strange  thoughts  and 
queries ;  sometimes  remarking  afterwards  to 
Ellis — with  whom  Morag  had  now  a  recognized 


106  MORAG. 

existence — "She  is  such  a  queer  little  girl, 
Morag !  She  has  such  deep,  long  thoughts 
about  everything,  and  it  seems  to  make  her 
quite  grave  and  sad  when  she  can't  understand 
things  we  read.  I'm  sure  I  am  always  glad 
enough  to  skip  the  difficult  things,  and  hurry 
over  to  the  nice,  easy,  pleasant  bits  of  a  book." 
To  our  little  Blanche,  the  world  seemed  as 
yet  like  a  happy  garden,  without  any  enclosure 
line,  where  she  might  enjoy  herself  as  a  butter 
fly  would,  fluttering  from  flower  to  flower.  It 
would  be  perfect  happiness,  she  thought,  if  she 
might  wrander  from  day  to  day  without  restraint, 
hearing  pleasant  words,  saying  pleasant  things, 
getting  all  the  enjoyment  possible,  while  avoid 
ing  everything  which  seemed  hard  or  disagree- 
able. And  the  years  to  come,  when  she  would 
be  a  grown-up  lady,  having  the  freedom  that 
she  so  longed  for,  lay  in  the  dim  distance  like 
the  expected  hours  of  a  pleasant  summer-holi- 
day, with  all  kinds  of  delicious  possibilities 
folded  in  each.  The  world  with  all  its  wonders 
seemed  like  a  playroom  to  her,  and  the  marvels 
of  nature  interested  her,  just  as  playthings  had 
done  in  the  old  nursery  days.  To  her,  nature 
had  never  spoken  in  faint  mysterious  whispers 
of  a  beauty  and  glory  higher  than  its  own,  as  it 
had  sometimes  done  to  the  lonely  little  maiden 


KIRSTY  MACPHERSON.  107 


in  her  wild  mountain  home.  Nor  did  Blanche 
understand,  any  more  than  Morag,  that  the  God 
whose  voice  is  in  the  storm,  who  shapes  the 
grass  and  blanches  the  snow,  is  the  same  God 
who  came  to  dwell  upon  earth ;  not  that  He 
might  rejoice  and  revel  in  the  fair  world  which 
He  made,  but  to  be  its  Saviour  from  the  curse 
and  the  stain  with  which  sin  had  defiled  it. 

Sometimes  Blanche  would  recount  with  dim- 
med eye  and  flushing  cheek  to  her  mountain 
friend  stories  of  noble  deeds  or  patient  suffer- 
ings of  which  she  had  read  or  heard  ;  but  there 
was  one  story  with  which  Blanche  had  been  fa- 
miliar from  her  babyhood,  though  it  had  never 
stirred  her  heart  nor  had  any  interest  for  her  at 
all,  and  she  felt  much  surprised  and  somewhat 
disappointed  when  Morag  begged  that  the  New 
Testament  should  be  her  lesson-book.  She 
seemed  to  look  on  Blanche's  smartly-bound 
volumes  with  great  interest  and  reverence,  but 
always  brought  with  her  to  the  fir-wood  the  big 
old  Bible  with  its  musty  yellow  leaves,  and  its 
smell  of  peat-smoke.  After  the  lesson  was  over, 
which  as  yet  consisted  in  a  recognition  of  the 
letters  of  the  alphabet,  or  efforts  to  spell  out 
the  easy  words,  Morag  would  beg  Blanche  to 
read  a  little  to  her;  and  as  the  silvery  voice 
flowed  pleasantly  on,  she  would  listen  with  an 


108  MO  RAG. 

eager  interest  which  surprised  the  reader,  and 
in  which  she  did  not  share. 

On  Sunday  afternoons  it  was  Blanche's  task 
to  read  a  chapter  of  the  Bible  with  Miss  Pros- 
ser ;  and  rather  a  wearisome  one  she  always 
thought  it.  The  verses  seemed  to  her  like  a 
collection  of  puzzling  phrases  strung  together, 
and  she  was  glad  when  the  hour  was  past,  and 
the  book  restored  to  its  shelf  for  another  week. 
At  church,  too,  she  always  looked  upon  the 
Lessons  as  the  most  wearisome  part  of  the 
service,  and  rejoiced  to  hear  the  organ  peal 
again,  and  the  choristers'  voices  ring  through 
the  aisles.  But  Blanche  was  really  anxious  to 
be  helpful  to  Morag,  and  it  vexed  her  that  there 
were  so  many  things  which  she  could  not  ex- 
plain to  her  little  friend,  who  was  so  eager  to 
learn  and  know  everything. 

One  afternoon,  when  matters  were  in  this 
state,  the  girls  started  with  Chance  and  Shag 
to  have  a  long  ride.  Morag  never  seemed  foot- 
sore or  tired,  however  far  she  walked,  and  noth- 
ing would  persuade  her  ever  to  mount  the 
pony.  Blanche  renewed  her  entreaties  each 
day  that  she  would  ride  for  a  little  sometimes ; 
but  Morag  would  shake  her  head  in  a  decided 
manner,  as  she  was  wont  to  do,  saying,  quietly, 
"I'll  no  leave  the  heather,  leddy;  my  feet's 


KIRSTY  MACPHERSON.  1Q9 


ower  weel  acquaint  wi't  to  be  gettin'  tired." 
Sometimes  she  would  recount  in  her  low  tones, 
as  she  trotted  by  Shag's  side,  holding  a  tuft  of 
his  mane,  walking  exploits  which  seemed  mar- 
vellous to  Blanche,  as  she  gazed  at  the  heathery 
heights  so  near  the  sky,  which  the  little  brown 
feet  had  scaled,  and  she  began  to  feel  ambi- 
tious to  be  able  to  perform  similiar  feats.  "  It 
would  be  such  fun  to  climb  one  of  those  hills 
to  the  very  tip-top,  quite  alone  by  ourselves," 
she  would  sometimes  say.  "  I  shouldn't  tell 
Miss  Prosser,  you  know,  because  she  would  be 
sure  to  say  it  was  out  of  the  question.  I  should 
coax  Mrs.  Worthy  to  give  us  a  lot  of  sandwiches, 
and  we  would  take  a  bottle  of  milk  with  us, 
and  that  would  be  having  a  flask  like  papa. 
Oh  !  it  would  be  so  nice,  Morag  ;  I  really  think 
we  must  set  out  the  first  chance  we  can  find." 

But  Morag  was  scrupulously  faithful  to  her 
post  as  guardian  and  guide,  and  always  loyally 
disapproved  of  any  proposal  that  might  meet 
with  disapprobation ;  and  she  had,  moreover,  a 
quiet  power  over  the  impulsive  little  Blanche, 
which  generally  prevailed. 

The  cavalcade  had  started  this  afternoon  on 
the  same  road  which  Blanche  and  her  father 
took  on  the  first  day  when  they  rode  together 
in  Glen  Eagle.  The  ground  was  not  so  quickly 


110  MORAG. 

gone  over  on  this  occasion.  There  were  many 
objects  of  interest  which  Blanche  wanted  to 
examine,  now  that  Shag  had  not  to  be  kept  up 
to  the  swinging  trot  of  her  father's  hunter. 
Occasionally  the  little  Shetlander  got  rather 
tired  of  such  a  loitering  pace,  and  would  shake 
his  mane,  and  give  his  tail  a  whisk,  as  if  to  say, 
"  Come  6n,  my  little  mistress !  This  slow  state 
of  affairs  is  excessively  tiresome;  let's  have 
something  lively;"  and  off  they  would  start 
on  a  sharp  trot,  leaving  Morag  far  behind,  but 
presently  returning  to  her. 

Shag  and  his  mistress  had  now  started  in 
one  of  these  frisky  fits,  and  Morag  seated  her- 
self at  the  roadside  to  wait  till  they  should  re- 
appear again.  Left  to  her  own  meditations, 
she  began  to  think  of  something  which  Blanche 
had  been  reading  to  her  yesterday  in  the  fir- 
wood.  She  would  fain  have  heard  more,  but 
the  little  lady  had  closed  the  book  with  a  yawn, 
and  stretching  herself  on  the  soft  turf,  said, 
impatiently,  "  O  Morag !  I  do  wish  I  had  my 
'  Illustrated  Fairy  Stories'  here ;  I  should  be 
so  glad  to  read  them  to  you,  and  I'm  sure  you 
would  like  them — they  are  so  nice ; "  and 
then  she  began,  in  glowing  words,  to  tell  one 
of  them,  and  Morag  thought  it  very  delightful, 
indeed;  but  still  her  thoughts  would  wander 


KIRST  Y  MA  CP  HER  SON.  \  \  \ 


back  to  a  wonderful  story  which  she  had  heard 
for  the  first  time  that  afternoon.  Blanche  had 
happened  to  read  in  the  end  of  St.  John's  Gos- 
pel, where  we  hear  about  Mary  Magdalene  find- 
ing the  rocky  grave  of  the  Lord  empty,  to  her 
great  wonder  and  grief,  till  she  recognized  the 
dear  familiar  voice  of  the  Master,  who  had  risen 
again  from  the  dead,  and  drew  near  to  comfort 
her. 

Morag  had  been  able  to  gather  from 
Blanche's  reading  a  little  about  our  Lord's  life 
on  earth,  and  all  the  wonderful  things  which 
lie  went  about  doing ;  and  she  knew  that  at 
last  He  had  been  killed  by  wicked  men,  and 
laid  in  the  grave  still  and  dead;  but  from  this 
story  it  would  seem  that  He  was  alive  again ; 
and  Morag  could  not  understand  it  at  all. 
Often  she  wandered  into  the  little  graveyard 
in  the  Glen,  and  among  the  worn  mossy  head- 
stones peeping  from  the  long  rank  grass,  which 
told  the  names  of  the  quiet  sleepers  below. 
Sometimes,  too,  she  watched  a  little  company 
of  mourners,  with  their  sorrowful  burden, 
wending  their  way  along  the  white  hilly  road ; 
and  when  she  went  to  see  her  mother's  grave 
next  time,  she  would  notice  a  fresh  green  sod 
somewhere  near,  and  she  knew  that  another 
dweller  in  the  Glen  was  laid  there,  in  his  long 
home,  never  to  be  seen  among  them  more. 


J12  MO  RAG. 

But  this  good  Lord,  who  died  on  the  green 
hill,  and  was  laid  in  His  rocky  grave,  seemed 
to  have  come  back  to  the  world  again  to  speak 
loving  words  to  everybody,  as  He  had  done 
before  He  was  crucified.  Could  He,  then,  be 
alive  in  the  world  now  ?  Morag's  heart  gave  a 
great  throb  when  she  thought  of  it.  Perhaps 
one  day  He  might  come  to  the  hut  and  speak 
kind  words  to  her,  as  Mr.  Clifford  had  done  on 
that  rainy  afternoon  when  she  was  so  wet  and 
miserable.  Perhaps  He  might  offer  to  get  the 
roof  of  the  hut  put  right  too,  since  the  laird 
wouldn't  do  it,  and  even  to  give  her  father  a 
new  house,  which  he  wanted  so  much.  But 
Morag  thought,  that  to  hear  His  voice  speaking 
beautiful  kind  words,  as  He  used  to  do  to  the 
people  long  ago,  would  be  better  than  anything 
else ;  and  as  she  thought  of  it,  her  hope  grew 
stronger  every  minute,  that  one  day  He  might 
come  to  the  Glen,  and  she  might  see  Him  and 
hear  His  voice. 

Blanche  came  galloping  back  at  last,  her 
face  all  aglow  with  happiness,  and  her  long 
curls  floating  about  her. 

"  O  Morag  !  "  she  cried,  excitedly,  "  I  want 
you  to  come  and  see  the  prettiest  little  cottage 
I  ever  saw  in  my  life,  with  delicious  lumps  of 
green  moss  growing  out  of  the  brown  roof,  and 


KIR  STY  MACPHERSON'.  113 


pretty  roses  climbing  up  the  wall.  Papa  and 
I  passed  it  before,  when  we  rode  this  way,  and 
we  saw  such  a  nice  old  woman  in  the  cornfield 
behind  the  house.  She  was  tall  and  stooping, 
and  looked  so  very  tired  all  alone  at  work 
among  the  sheaves  of  corn.  She  looked  up 
with  such  kind  beautiful  eyes  when  Shag  and 
I  passed.  I  should  like  so  much  to  see  her 
again ;  but  I've  been  looking  into  the  field,  and 
she  isn't  there,  and  it's  all  bare  now."  Blanche 
had  been  prattling  on,  not  noticing  Morag's 
flushed  cheek  and  perfect  silence.  "  Did  you 
ever  see  the  cottage,  Morag  ? "  she  continued. 
"  Do  you  know  if  the  old  woman  really  lives 
there,  or  anything  about  her?  Do  you  hear, 
Morag  \ " 

"  Ay  !  I'll  be  whiles  seein'  her  when  I'll 
be  passin'  this  road.  It's  Kirsty  Macpherson's 
hoose,"  replied  Morag,  in  low,  reluctant  tones, 
as  if  she  were  unwilling  to  volunteer  any  in- 
formation on  the  point.  Blanche  noticed  that 
there  was  something  wrong,  and  they  went 
slowly  on  without  speaking,  till  they  came  to 
another  winding  of  the  road,  and  the  cottage 
in  question  came  in  sight.  Blanche  looked 
longingly  across  the  old  grey  dyke  from  the 
dusty  road  into  the  pleasant  little  garden,  with 
its  sweet-smelling,  old-fashioned  flowers  and 


114  MO  RAG. 

herbs  growing  side  bj7  side  with  the  gooseberry 
and  currant  bushes  shaded  by  one  or  two 
ancient  rowan-trees.  Morag  was  evidently 
trying  very  hard  to  avert  her  eyes,  and  kept 
steadily  gazing  into  Shag's  glossy  mane,  when 
Blanche  exclaimed,  as  if  inspired  by  a  new  and 
pleasant  idea — 

"  Look  here,  Morag !  suppose  we  knock  at 
the  door,  and  ask  the  old  woman  to  give  us 
some  water  to  drink?  that  would  be  a  good 
way  to  see  her  again,  you  know ;  and,  besides, 
I'm  really  thirsty,  after  my  gallop.  Do  let's 
go  at  once ;  it  will  be  such  fun." 

"Ye'll  need  to  ask  it  yersel,  then,  leddy. 
I'll  no  darken  the  door,"  replied  Morag,  with 
flushing  face,  and  an  expression  about  her 
mouth  which  suddenly  reminded  Blanche  that 
she  was  the  daughter  of  the  sinister-looking 
keeper,  under  whose  glance  she  had  felt  so 
strangely  uncomfortable  on  the  evening  of 
the  first  day  in  the '  Glen.  She  felt  puzzled 
and  annoyed  at  Morag's  reply ;  but  she  was 
a  wilful  little  person  and  loved  to  have  her 
way  at  any  cost.  So  she  pulled  up  Shag,  and 
prepared  to  dismount,  saying,  rather  impatient- 
ly, "  Well,  Morag,  if  you  don't  wish  to  go,  you 
needn't ;  though  I  really  can't  think  why  you 
shouldn't  want  to  see  such  a  nice  old  woman 


KIKS  TY  MA  CP HER  SON.  \  \  5 


But  there  isn't  any  harm  in  my  going  to  the 
door  surely  ?  and  besides  I'm  really  thirsty. 
You  won't  come  then  ? "  added  Blanche,  who 
had  now  dismounted,  and  was  gathering  up  her 
habit  as  she  moved  towards  the  little  rustic 
garden-gate.  But  Morag  made  no  reply  ;  and 
taking  hold  of  Shag's  bridle,  she  went  slowly 
on  along  the  road  with  a  dogged  expression  on 
her  face. 

The  cottage  door  was  ajar,  and  Blanche  could 
see  into  the  room  at  one  end,  and  there,  seated 
at  the  low  fireside  in  a  high-elbowed  chair, 
quietly  reading,  she  recognized  the  old  woman 
whom  she  had  seen  in  the  field  binding  the 
sheaf.  The  little  girl  knocked  gently,  but  the 
moment  she  had  done  so,  she  began  to  wish 
that  she  had  not  come,  especially  when  Morag 
seemed  to  be  so  opposed  to  her  going.  It  was 
too  late  to  repent  now,  however.  The  old 
woman  had  heard  her  knock,  and  laying  down 
the  spectacles  on  her  open  book,  she  rose  to  go 
to  the  door.  She  looked  at  the  little  girl  with 
the  same  placid  face  and  kindly  look  in  her 
gray  eyes  as  she  had  done  across  the  dyke  in 
the  cornfield,  and  waited  quietly  to  hear  what 
she  wanted.  Blanche  stood  silent  for  a  few  sec- 
onds, feeling  rather  foolish,  and  forgetting  in 
the  confusion  of  the  moment  the  mode  of  ad- 


116  MORAG. 

dress  which  she  had  previously  arranged,  but 
at  last  she  managed  to  gasp  out  nervously, 
"  Oh !  please,  I  was  only  passing  this  way 
with  Morag  and  Shag,  and  I  felt  rather  thirsty, 
and  thought  perhaps  you  would  be  so  very 
kind  as  to  give  me  some  water  to  drink  2 " 

"That  will  I,  my  bonnie  bairn.  Jist  ye 
step  ben  here,"  said  the  old  woman,  smiling 
kindly.  Blanche  followed  her,  looking  round 
this  new  interior  with  considerable  curiosity. 
There  were  only  two  rooms  in  the  cottage,  the 
but-end  and  the  ben-end,  as  they  are  called  in 
Scotland.  Within,  as  without  the  cottage, 
everything  was  beautifully  trim  and  neat. 
The  floor  of  the  room  was  earthen,  but  it  was 
smooth  and  dry,  and  looked  quite  comfortable. 
The  tables  and  chairs  were  all  of  clean  white 
wood,  and  on  the  shelf  above  the  table  were 
ranged  rows  of  white  and  blue  and  yellow 
shining  delf.  The  fire  was  on  the  earthen 
floor,  kept  together  bv  two  blocks  of  stone; 
and  on  either  side,  in  what  is  called  the  ingle- 
neiik,  there  stood  one  or  two  little  stools,  and 
near  the  big  arm-chair,  where  the  solitary 
inmate  had  been  seated. 

Blanche  had  time  to  note  all  these  sur- 
roundings while  the  old  woman  took  a  pitcher 
and  went  to  fetch  some  water.  It  was  rather 


KIR  STY  MA  CP HER  SON.  \  \  7 


an  exertion  for  her  now  to  go  down  the  steep 
steps  to  the  well,  and  indeed  she  had  a  supply 
of  water  in  the  house  which  was  meant  to 
serve  for  the  day;  but  Kirsty  always  liked  to 
give  the  best  she  had,  and  she  went  gladly  to 
fetch  a  draught  of  cool,  clear  water  from  the 
mountain  spring  for  the  thirsty  little  maiden. 
Presently  she  returned,  and  setting  the  pitcher 
on  the  earthen  floor,  she  took  a  shining  delf 
jug  from  the  shelf,  and  filling  it  she  gently 
offered  it  to  Blanche,  saying,  with  a  smile — 

"  Here  noo,  my  bonnie  lambie,  is  a  drap  o' 
cauld  watter  to  ye.  Ye're  welcome  tilt.  May 
ye  get  a  lang  draught  o'  the  watter  that  Pie 
gies,  afore  ye  try  a'  the  broken  cisterns  o'  this 
warl.' " 

Kirsty *s  dialect  was  more  difficult  for 
Blanche  to  understand  than  even  Morag's. 
She  came  originally  from  that  part  of  Scotland 
where  a  rough,  harsh  dialect  is  spoken,  almost 
as  difficult  for  English  people  to  understand  as 
a  foreign  language  would  be.  Blanche,  how- 
ever, understood  sufficiently  to  make  her  reply 
eagerly — 

"  Oh !  that  is  the  water  we  read  about  in 
the  Bible,  is  it  not  ?  I  suppose  you  are  very 
fond  of  reading  the  Bible,  and  know  all  about 
Jesus  Christ?  I  do  wish  Moras?  had  been 


118  MO  RAG. 

here;  you  might  have  told  her  some  of  the 
things  she  is  so  anxious  to  know.  She's  so 
fond  of  the  New  Testament, — so  much  more 
than  I  am.  She's  such  a  nice  little  girl,  Morag. 
I'm  sure  you  would  like  her  if  you  knew 
her,"  added  Blanche,  eagerly,  on  peace-making 
thoughts  intent.  "  She  is  the  keeper's  daughter, 
you  know,  and  often  goes  out  with  Shag  and 
me.'' 

The  old  woman,  in  her  turn,  had  difficulty 
in  understanding  the  little  English  girl's  rapid, 
silvery  flow,  and  Blanche  had  again  to  explain 
that  the  keeper  Dingwall's  daughter  was  wait- 
ing outside. 

"  Alaster  Dingwall's  bairn,  say  ye  ?  I  hae 
heard  tell  she  wasna  an  ill  bairnie,  puir  thing. 
She's  ootby  there,  is  she?  I  wad  like  richt 
weel  to  tak'  a  look  o'  her.  It's  mony  a  lang 
day  sin'  I  hae  lookit  intil  her  faither's  face. 
"Weel  div  I  min'  upon  the  last  time,  though," 
continued  the  old  woman,  with  a  sad  look  in 
her  calm  gray  eyes. 

"  She's  at  the  gate  with  Shag ;  do  come  and 
see  her,"  said  the  impulsive  little  Blanche,  for- 
getting how  unwilling  Morag  had  been  to  make 
any  advances  to  Kirsty. 

"  Do  you  live  quite  alone  in  this  cottage? 
Aren't  you  very  lonely  sometimes  ? "  asked 


KIR  STY  MA  CPHERSON.  \  ]  9 


Blanche,  as  she  watched  the  old  woman  mov- 
ing about  her  solitary  habitation.  "  I'll  come 
back  and  see  you  again  soon,  if  you  would  like ; 
and  perhaps  Morag  may  come  in  with  me, 
next  time,"  added  Blanche,  in  an  encouraging 
tone. 

"  'Deed,  an'  I'll  be  richt  glad  to  see  ye,  my 
bairn,  gin  yer  folk  kens  ye're  here,  and  doesna' 
objec.  I'm  thinkin'  ye're  fond  o'  a  bit  flouer, 
like  mysel,"  said  the  old  woman,  smiling,  as 
she  pulled  a  pretty  yellow  rose  from  the  wall 
beside  the  cottage  door,  where  it  had  been  care- 
fully fastened,  to  preserve  it  as  long  as  possible, 
and  gave  it  to  the  little  girl,  who  had  stopped 
to  admire  it. 

Meanwhile,  Morag  and  Shag  were  waiting 
on  a  shady  bit  of  the  road,  a  few  yards  off. 
Blanche  ran  eagerly  forward  to  meet  them, 
whispering  in  an  excited  tone  to  Morag — 

"  O  Morag !  you'll  like  her  so  much.  She 
is  such  a  nice,  kind  old  woman ;  and  besides," 
she  added,  in  a  lower  tone,  "  I  think  she  knows 
all  about  Jesus  Christ — just  what  you  are  so 
anxious  about.  She's  coming  now  to  talk  to 
you ;  she  knew  your  father  once,  she  says,  and 
wants  to  see  you." 

The  old  woman  came  slowly  along  the 
road  towards  them,  but  Morag's  face  wore  a 


120  MO  RAG. 

more  dogged  expression  than  ever,  and  she 
turned  away  from  Blanche,  and  began  to  plait 
Shag's  mane  in  dumb  silence. 

"  So  ye're  Alaster  Dingwall's  dochter,  my 
bairn,"  said  the  old  woman,  slowly,  as  she 
looked  at  the  little  hot-cheeked  girl.  "Ye 
maybe  diuna  ken  auld  Kirsty,  but  yer  faither 
will  min'  o'  her,  fine.  Will  ye  tell  Alaster 
Dingwall  that  Kirsty  Macpherson  is  willin'  to 
forgie  him,  though  he  brocht  sair  trouble  upo' 
her  ance.  But  it's  lang  syne, — and  we  maun 
forgie,  as  we  hope  to  be  forgien,"  and  the  old 
woman  held  out  her  long,  thin  hand  to  Morag 

The  little  girl  glanced  at  her  with  a  mix- 
ture of  curiosity  and  surprise,  and  her  face 
worked  nervously;  but  she  gave  no  hand  in 
return,  and  preserved  a  dogged  silence. 

Blanche  wondered  greatly  how  the  good  lit- 
tle Morag  could  ever  have  grown  so  naughty 
all  of  a  sudden,  and  there  followed  an  awkward 
silence,  only  broken  by  some  manifestations  of 
restlessness  on  Shag's  part,  as  if  he  thought  it 
v-as  more  than  time  to  start  for  home.  At 
last  Blanche  thought  there  was  no  use  of  wait- 
ing longer  for  any  rift  in  the  cloud,  and  going 
up  to  the  old  woman  she  laid  her  little  flutter- 
ing hand  in  the  thin  fingers,  saying,  u  Good- 
bye, Kirsty,  and  thank  you  very  much  for  the 


• 

KIR  STY  MA  CPHERSON.  ]  21 

nice  drink  of  water,  and  for  this  pretty  rose. 
I'll  make  Ellis  fix  it  in  my  curls  when  I'm 
dressed  for  the  evening.  I  shall  come  back  to 
see  you  again,  at  any  rate,"  she  added,  with 
an  emphasis  on  the  personal  pronoun,  as  she 
mounted  Shag,  and  turned  to  go,  while  Morag 
followed  silently,  with  downcast  eye  and  linger- 
ing step. 

The  old  woman  shaded  her  eyes  with  her 
long  thin  fingers,  and  stood  watching  them  till 
they  were  out  of  sight,  and  then  she  returned 
with  glow  steps  to  the  cottage.  She  sighed  as 
she  glanced  round  the  room,  which  a  few  min- 
utes ago  had  been  filled  by  the  child's  bright 
presence.  It  seemed  more  solitary  than  usual 
now,  Kirsty  thought,  as  she  looked  wearily 
round.  "  She  said  she  thocht  I  maun  be  some 
lonesome.  Sic  a  bonnie  bit  blink  o'  a  lassie  ! 
I  wad  like  richt  weel  to  see  her  agin.  I  liket 
the  look  o'  Alaster  DingwalTs  bairnie.  Surely 
he  couldna  hae  pitten  her  agin  me  ?  She 
lookit  some  dour  like,  and  would  na  speak 
ava'." 

Like  persons  who  live  much  alone,  Kirsty 
nad  the  habit  of  thinking  aloud;  and,  indeed, 
her  thoughts  were  so  often  with  a  living,  listen- 
ing Friend,  that  the  practice  seemed  quite  a 
natural  one.  As  she  pulled  out  her  rough  blue 


122  MO  RAG. 

stocking,  which  she  was  knitting,  and  seated 
herself  on  the  doorstep,  in  the  yellow  after- 
noon sunlight,  she  continued — "  If  I  didna 
mistak  that  wee  leddy  wi  her  sweet  tongue,  she 
said  that  the  bairn  was  wantin'  to  ken  aboot  the 
Lord  Jesus.  Eh !  Lord,  but  Thy  th  ~>chts  are 
wonderfu'  and  Thy  ways  past  fiudin'  oo.<.  Puir 
lambie  !  may  the  gude  Shepherd  lead  her  til 
Himsel.  It's  a  pity  gin  her  faither  has  pitten 
her  agin  me.  I  wad  like  to  see  the  lassie, 
whiles.  There's  been  nae  bairn  i'  the  house 
sin  he  gaed  away.  Mypuir,  lost  laddie-!  fat's 
come  o'  him  ?  O  Lord  !  I  wad  fain  ken  aboot 
the  wanderin'  sheep  afore  I  gang  hame  mysel," 
and  the  old  woman  covered  her  face  with  her 
withered  hands,  and  rocked  to  and  fro  in  silent 
grief,  at  the  memory  of  a  life-long  sorrow  which 
was  ever  present  with  her. 

In  the  meantime  Blanche  and  Morag  had 
been  going  on  their  homeward  way.  The  after- 
noon was  beautiful  as  before,  and  the  soft  cool 
breeze  made  the  road  through  the  heather  very 
pleasant  indeed ;  still  neither  of  the  girls  felt 
so  happy  or  light-hearted  as  they  had  done  when 
they  started. 

"  The  little  rift  within  the  lute, 
That  soon  must  make  all  music  mute," 

had  this  afternoon  shown  itself  for  the  first  time 


KIRS  T  Y  MA  CP  HER  SON.  123 


since  they  became  friends.  With  Blanche,  how- 
ever, it  was  only  a  momentary  feeling  of  un- 
pleasantness and  perplexity  as  to  how  Morag, 
the  wise  and  g->od,  should  on  this  occasion 
have  behaved  so  badly.  It  was  not  her  habit 
to  keep  her  thoughts  to  herself,  so  she  pres- 
ently exclaimed,  "Well,  Morag,  I  really  can't 
understand  what  makes  you  dislike  such  a  nice 
old  woman.  You  were  really  quite  sulky  and 
rude  when  she  held  out  her  hand." 

A  host  of  bitter  feelings  were  surging  in 
poor  little  Morag's  breast,  and  she  made  no 
reply  to  Blanche's  remark.  She  had  tried  so 
hard  to  do  what  was  right,  much  against  her 
own  inclination,  and  now  everything  seemed 
wrong.  Her  bonnie  wee  leddy,  whom  she 
loved  so  well,  and  wanted  so  much  to  please, 
had  called  her  rude ;  and  very  rude,  ce. ,  in  , 
must  Kirsty  have  thought  h.r. 

Little  did  Blanche  know  what  a  familiar, 
enchanted  spot  this  cottage  was  to  Morag. 
How  often  she  had  glanced  wistfully  into  the 
little  garden  with  its  sweet-scented  flowers — the 
nicest  she  ever  saw  in  her  life,  and  how  she 
had  longed  to  speak  to  the  old  stooping  woman 
moving  about  among  them.  On  one  eventful 
occasion,  as  she  happened  to  pass  along  the 
dusty  road,  Kirsty  stood  knitting  at  the  gate, 


124  MO  RAG. 

and,  looking  at  the  little  girl  with  her  kindly 
smile,  she  had  said,  "  It's  a  richt  bonnie  day, 
my  bairn."  That  was  all ;  but  poor  little 
Morag  went  home  feeling  as  if  a  great  event 
had  happened,  and  resolving  that  she  w^ould 
pass  that  way  again,  in  the  hope  of  such  an- 
other salutation.  She  recounted  the  circum- 
stance glowingly  to  her  father,  but  as  he  lis- 
tened, his  face  wore  its  darkest  frown,  and  he 
said  sternly,  "  Ye're  no  to  be  passin'  that  way 
agin,  I  tell  ye,  gettin'  Kirsty  Macpherson's 
clavers.  Depend  on't,  she  didna  know  your 
name  was  Dingwall,  or  she  wouldna  hae  spoken 
til  ye.  Ye'll  no  be  darkeuin'  her  door  agin. 
D'ye  hear,  Morag  ? "  and  the  little  girl  had  re- 
plied meekly,  for  she  noticed  that  her  father 
was  in  one  of  his  darkest  moods. 

Morag  had  often  pondered  the  matter,  and 
wondered  why  her  father  disliked  Kirsty  so 
very  much.  Always  when  they  chanced  to 
pass  by  the  road,  Dingwall  would  glance  un- 
easily at  the  cottage  and  its  garden  to  see  if 
the  old  woman  was  about,  and  presently  he 
would  make  some  bitter  remark,  and  repeat  his 
injunction  that  Morag  should  have  nothing  to 
do  with  the  "like  o'  her,"  till  the  little  girl 
had  come  to  think  that  though  Kirsty  looked 
so  delightful,  she  must  surely  be  a  very  \vicked 


KIRSTY  MACPHERSON.  125 


woman.  Still,  she  had  a  curious  fascination 
for  the  little  girl ;  she  longed  to  see  the  inte- 
rior of  the  pretty  cottage,  and  felt  a  great  in- 
terest in  all  the  ongoings  of  its  inmate  which 
it  was  possible  to  observe  from  afar.  She  had 
always  conscientiously  avoided  an  encounter, 
however,  and  on  this  afternoon  she  had  in  loy- 
alty to  her  father  shaped  her  conduct,  which 
Blanche  characterized  as  rude.  But  now  Morag 
began  to  doubt  whether  Kirsty  could  really  be 
a  bad  woman  after  all ;  she  looked  so  gentle, 
and  had  spoken  such  kind  words, — and  that 
strange  message  to  her  father,  too,  what  could 
it  mean  ?  The  little  girl  could  not  understand 
it,  and  she  walked  by  Shag's  side  in  silent  per- 
plexity and  distress. 

Blanche  began  to  feel  rather  uncomfortable 
in  having  Morag  walking  by  her  side  so  sadly 
and  quietly.  She  could  not  be  long  silent  un- 
der any  circumstances,  and  finally  took  refuge 
in  a  lively  conversation  with  Chance,  who  had 
been  keeping  beside  her  with  rather  a  depres- 
sed aspect,  as  if  he  guessed  that  something 
was  wrong.  At  last,  when  he  bounded  oft'  in 
pursuit  of  a  rabbit  which  had  crossed  the 
road,  Blanche  felt  glad  of  the  excuse  to  fol- 
low, and  trotted  off,  leaving  poor  little  Morag 
companionless.  More  heartsore  than  footsore, 


126  MORAG. 

she  wearily  seated  herself  on  the  heather  to 
await  their  return.  Her  tears  were  not  in  the 
habit  of  flowing  readily,  indeed  she  hardly  re- 
membered having  a  fit  of  crying  since  she  was 
a  little  girl ;  but  as  she  sat  on  the  bank,  the 
bright  sky  and  the  purple  heath  seemed  sud- 
denly to  become  dim  to  her  eyes,  and  hot  tears 
rolled  down  the  brown  cheeks,  and  trickled 
through  the  little  hands,  which  would  fain 
have  hid  them  from  the  day.  It  was  so  hard, 
she  thought,  to  have  tried  to  be  good  and 
obedient,  and  yet  to  feel  so  much  in  the  wrong 
as  she  did  now,  and  to  be  so  bitterly  disgraced. 
If  the  wee  leddy  could  only  know  how  much 
she  would  like  to  have  gone  to  the  cottage- 
door  with  her,  and  what  a  struggle  it  had  been 
to  refuse  when  the  opportunity,  so  longed  for, 
had  presented  itself.  How  nice  it  would  have 
been  to  see  what  was  inside  those  pretty  cur- 
tained window's,  and  to  watch  the  old  woman 
moving  about  the  cottage  !  And  the  wee  leddy 
had  said  something  about  Kirsty  knowing  the 
Lord  Jesus ;  so  she  would  be  sure  to  be  able 
to  tell  her  all  the  things  which  she  wanted  so 
much  to  know. 

Morag  laid  her  head  among  the  heather, 
and  wept  bitterly  at  the  thought  of  all  she 
had  missed  that  afternoon.  And  as  she  lay  sob- 


KIR  STY  MA  CP HER  SON.  127 

bing  there,  the  remembrance  of  the  story  which 
she  had  heard  the  day  before  for  the  first 
time  flitted  across  her  little  troubled  heart  like 
a  gleam  of  light.  The  Lord  Jesus  seemed 
always  so  very  willing  to  help  and  comfort 
everybody  in  trouble  before  the  wicked  men 
crucified  Him  on  the  green  hill.  And  had 
He  not  even  come  back  again  after  He  was 
laid  in  His  grave,  and  spoken  such  kind  words 
to  the  woman  who  stood  weeping  there,  and 
might  He  not  be  able  to  help  her  now? 

Hardly  knowing  that  she  spoke  aloud,  Mo- 
rag  buried  her  face  among  the  bracken,  and 
cried  in  her  distress,  "  O  Lord  Jesus !  gin  ye 
be  a  frien'  o'  Kirsty  Macpherson's,  dinna  let 
her  think  ill  o'  me  for  no  speakin'  til  her ;  and 
mak'  me  happy  again  wi'  the  wee  leddy." 

When  she  had  finished  speaking,  she  glanced 
around  with  an  expectant  gaze,  as  if  she  might 
see  a  listener  standing  by  her  side.  But  there 
stretched  the  solitary  moors  on  all  sides,  with 
the  yellow  afternoon  sun  shining  calm  and 
bright  on  everything,  and  sending  his  kind  rays 
upon  the  sorrowful  little  girl. 

Meanwhile,  Blanche  had  been  trying  to 
enjoy  her  canter.  She  went  further  on  her 
homeward  way  than  she  intended  ;  and  Shag 
remonstrated  not  a  little  when  his  bridle-rein 


128  MO  RAG. 

intimated  that  he  must  retrace  his  steps. 
"  What !  Shag,  do  you  really  mean  to  say  that 
you've  the  heart  to  go  home,  and  leave  Morag 
all  alone  ?  "  expostulated  Blanche  ;  and  at  last 
the  wilful  little  Shetlander  was  brought  to  a 
better  mind. 

And  now  Blanche  began  to  think  of  the 
troubles  which  she  would  have  to  face  again ; 
for  she  was  a  little  person  who  could  not  be 
happy  unless  she  was  the  best  of  friends  with 
everybody  round  her,  winning  and  bestowing 
smiles  on  all  sides  ;  and  she  felt  that  it  was  a  very 
uncomfortable  state  of  matters  to  have  Morag 
walking  beside  her,  so  sad  and  silent.  It  did 
not  occur  to  her  that  her  friend's  broken-hearted 
aspect  was  more  than  half  her  doing ;  for 
Blanche  had  yet  to  learn  how  much  "  evil  is 
wrought  by  want  of  thought  as  well  as  want  of 
heart."  But  when  she  felt  herself  in  the 
wrong  it  was  a  much  easier  matter  for  her,  than 
it  is  for  some  people,  to  seek  forgiveness  eagerly 
and  graciously.  All  at  once  it  dawned  upon 
her  that  it  was  not  quite  kind  to  have  brought 
Kirsty  to  talk  to  Morag,  who  seemed  so  anxious 
not  to  see  the  old  woman.  Perhaps,  indeed,  it 
might  have  been  better  not  to  have  gone  into 
the  cottage  at  all ;  and  certainly  it  had  quite 
spoilt  a  pleasant  afternoon.  Thoroughly  peni- 


KIRST  Y  MA  CP HER  SON.  129 


tent,  Blanche  resolved  that  peace  must  be 
instantly  proclaimed  between  her  mountain 
friend  and  herself.  She  quickened  Shag's  pace, 
and  swept  suddenly  round  upon  poor  Morag, 
whom  she  found  starting  up  from  the  heather 
with  a  tear-stained  face.  Blanche  was  at  her 
side  in  a  moment. 

"  O  Morag,  dear,  I'm  so  sorry !  It's  all  my 
fault.  I've  just  been  thinking  I  shouldn't  have 
brought  Kirsty  to  speak  to  you  when  you  didn't 
want  to  see  her.  Miss  Prosser  says  I'm  so 
thoughtless,  and,  you  see,  it's  quite  true.  Do 
say  you  forgive  me,  and  don't  cry  any  more,  or 
I  shall  begin  directly."  And  Blanche's  eyes 
filled  with  tears  as  she  threw  her  arm  round 
the  little  brown  neck,  and  looked  into  Morag's 
sorrowful  face. 

"  It's  no  that  I  didna  want  to  see  Kirsty,  but 
father  bid  me  no  speak  til  her, — niver,  and  I 
couldna'  anger  him.  I  would  hae  liket  weel  to 
gang  inby,  though,"  she  added,  in  a  mournful 
tone.  Then  Morag  went  on  to  tell,  with  much 
unconscious  pathos  in  the  narrative,  of  the  ro- 
mance which  had  grown  up  round  Kirsty  Mac- 
pherson  and  her  pretty  dwelling,  of  how  long 
she  had  watched  her  from  afar,  often  passing  by 
that  way,  in  order  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  old 
woman  among  her  flowers,  till  her  father's  in- 
9 


130  MO  RAG. 

junction  had  made  it  an  act  of  disobedience; 
and  since  then  she  had  tried  very  hard  always 
to  look  the  other  way.  Blanche  could  not  help 
thinking,  as  she  listened,  how  much  more  good 
and  obedient  this  little  untaught  maiden  had 
proved  than  she  was  likely  to  be  in  similar  cir- 
cumstances. 

"  But,  Morag,  I  really  can't  think  why  your 
father  should  forbid  you  to  talk  to  Kirsty.  I'm 
sure  she  can't  possibly  be  a  bad  old  woman ;  " 
and  Blanche  gave  a  glowing  description  of  her 
visit  to  the  cottage,  to  which  Morag  listened 
with  eager  interest. 

Shag  was  taking  advantage  of  the  pause  to 
snap  some  delicious  blades  of  grass  on  the  road- 
side, as  well  as  his  mouthful  of  steel  would  per- 
mit, while  Chance  had  drawn  near  to  investi- 
gate the  reason  of  this  objectionable  halt,  and 
was  captured  by  Blanche,  who  began  to  twine 
a  wreath  of  deer-horn  moss  round  his  reluctant 
neck,  as  she  talked. 

"  I'll  tell  you  what  you  must  do,  Morag," 
she  said  presently,  jumping  to  her  feet  with 
energy,  as  if  inspired  by  a  new  idea.  "  Tell 
your  father  all  about  our  stopping  at  Kirsty 's 
cottage, — how  I  would  go  to  ask  for  some  water 
to  drink,  and  how  kind  and  nice  she  was  to  me ; 
and  wanted  to  speak  to  you  so  much,  if  you 


KIR  STY  MACPHERSON.  131 


only  might  have  spoken  to  her.  And,  by  the 
by,  she  sent  a  message  to  your  father — some- 
thing about  forgiving  him,  wasn't  it  ?  I 
couldn't  understand  her  very  well.  Now,  Mo- 
rag,  if  you  only  tell  your  father  the  whole  story, 
and  coax  him  a  little,  you  know,  he  will  be 
sure  to  allow  you  to  speak  to  her  next  time.  I 
do  want  so  much  to  go  and  see  her  another 
afternoon  ;  but  I  shouldn't  care  to,  if  you  didn't 
come  with  me." 

Morag  shook  her  head;  she  had  not  the 
same  belief  in  her  own  coaxing  powers  as  she 
had  in  the  bonnie  wee  leddy's. 

"I'll  maybe  try,  but  I'm  thinkin'  he'll  no 
bear  the  soun'  o'  Kirsty's  name,"  said  Morag, 
in  a  desponding  tone,  as  she  rose  to  recapture 
the  straying  Shag.  Then  she  reminded  Blanche 
that  they  had  still  a  long  way  to  go,  and  pointed 
to  the  sun,  which  was  fast  westering ;  so  the 
cavalcade  moved  on,  and  both  the  little  hearts 
felt  happier  than  they  had  before  the  halt. 

Blanche  felt  certain  that  Morag's  story 
would  melt  her  father's  prejudice,  whatever  it 
might  arise  from  ;  and  Morag,  though  less  san- 
guine, began  to  be  more  hopeful,  and  listened 
with  delighted  smile  to  the  castles  in  the  air 
which  her  companion  was  building  concerning 
a  visit  to  the  cottage  ;  how  they  would  tie  Shag 


132  MORAG. 

to  a  paling  where  tie  could  find  some  nice  grass, 
and  deciding  that  Chance  must  really  be  left 
at  home,  being  much  too  outrageous  for  a 
small  room  like  Kirsty's.  Besides,  as  Blanche 
thoughtfully  suggested,  she  might  very  likely 
have  a  cat,  in  which  case,  Chance  would  be  a 
most  unwelcome  guest,  for  his  sentiments  re- 
garding cats  were  only  too  well  known  to  his 
anxious  mistress. 

Morag  was  still  very  shy  and  timid,  and  it 
was  only  on  rare  occasions  that  even  the  little 
English  maiden's  pleasant  prattle  could  put  her 
at  her  ease.  It  was  quite  an  effort  for  her  still 
to  make  a  remark  or  to  ask  a  question ;  and 
now,  as  she  nervously  took  hold  of  Shag's  mane, 
Blanche  felt  sure  that  she  wanted  very  much  to 
say  something  which  would  come  out  presently. 
At  last  she  asked,  in  quiet,  eager  tones,  "  Will 
ye  be  so  kind  as  to  tell  me,  leddy,  what  she 
would  be  sayin'  about  the  good  Lord  ?  Is  she 
weel  acquaint  wi'  Him  ? " 

"  Oh  !  let  me  see.  I  forget  exactly  what 
she  said.  I  think  I  said  that  I  thought  she 
must  be  very  lonely,  living  there  all  by  herself, 
and  she  said  she  would  be  if  it  were  not  for 
the  Lord  Jesus  Christ — or  something  like  that," 
replied  Blanche,  unable  to  give  a  sufficiently 
circumstantial  account  of  that  part  of  the  inter- 


KIRST  Y  MA  CPHER SON.  133 


view  to  satisfy  Morag,  who  remarked  medita- 
tively— 

"  I  dinna'  min'  o'  seein'  nobody  goin'  intil 
the  hoose,  excep'  auld  Elspet  Bruce.  Will  He 
be  goin'  to  see  her,  whiles,  when  she's  her  lone, 
think  ye,  leddy  ? " 

"  Who  do  you  mean  ?  I  never  said  any- 
body went  to  see  her ;  she  did  not  tell  me  so, 
you  funny  Morag,"  replied  Blanche,  looking 
puzzled. 

"  I  jist  thocht  maybe  He  will  be  goin'  inby, 
whiles,  when  she  was  terrible  lonesome — the 
Lord  Jesus,  ye  ken,"  stammered  Morag. 

"  Why,  Morag,  what  queer,  odd  ideas  you 
do  have !  Nobody  ever  saw  the  Lord  Jesus — 
at  least  not  since  He  died  and  went  to  heaven, 
— and  that's  ever  so  far  away  beyond  the  sun, 
you  know,  so  He  couldn't  possibly  come  back. 
I  forget  how  far  the  nearest  planet  is  from  the 
earth.  I  had  it  in  my  astronomy  lesson  the 
other  day  only." 

Morag  relapsed  into  puzzled  silence.  She 
had  not  the  remotest  idea  what  astronomy  was, 
and  wondered  if  she  should  know  about  that 
too  when  she  was  able  to  read  the  Bible. 
After  a  little  pause,  she  hazarded  one  remark 
more — 

"  But  do  ye  no  min',  leddy,  how  we  read 


134  MORAG. 

yestreen  about  the  good  Lord  no  restin'  intil 
His  grave,  like  other  folk,  and  when  the  wom- 
an was  cryin'  there,  how  He  came  inby,  and 
was  terrible  kind  like  ? " 

"  Oh  yes,"  said  Blanche,  interrupting  her ; 
"of  course  'He  rose  again  the  third  day,' — the 
creed  says  so,  you  know.  But  indeed,  Morag, 
He  never  comes  and  sees  anybody  now.  I 
never  heard  of  such  a  thing  in  my  life.  If 
I  were  to  ask  Miss  Prosser,  she  would  be  sure 
to  say,  *  My  dear,  I'm  shocked  at  your  ignor- 
ance,' as  she  generally  does  when  I  ask  ques- 
tions." And  Blanche  sighed  at  the  thought 
of  her  ignorance,  which  appeared  so  shocking 
to  her  governess  in  many  instances. 

They  were  coming  near  home  now,  and  had 
reached  the  shady  birk  walk  which  led  to  the 
castle,  when  they  heard  through  the  trees  Mr. 
Clifford's  pleasant  ringing  tones,  which  Morag 
loved  to  listen  to.  "Well,  pussy,  what  mis- 
chief have  you  been  about  this  afternoon  ? "  he 
said,  smilingly,  as  he  lifted  his  little  daughter 
from  her  pony. 

"  O  papa  !  I've  so  much  to  tell  you.  I  have 
actually  been  inside  Kirsty's  cottage,  and  it 
looks  quite  as  pretty  inside  as  outside,  and  she's 
such  a  nice  old  woman,"  said  Blanche,  raptur- 
ously, forgetting  that  she  had  not  introduced 
her  new  acquaintance. 


KIR  STY  MACPHERSON.  135 


"  I  fear  I  must  confess  shameful  ignorance, 
Blanchie/'  replied  her  father,  smiling.  "  Who 
is  this  Kirsty  ?  and  where  does  she  abide — a 
friend  of  Moray's  ? " 

o 

And  then  Blanche  remembered  that  was  a 
question  which  might  prove  embarrassing,  so 
she  adroitly  changed  the  subject. 

"  Oh,  here  comes  Lucas  for  Shag.     I  know 
Morag  wants  to  get  home  to  make  ready  her 
father's  supper."  she  continued,  being  quite  at 
home  now  in  all  the  domestic  arrangements  of 
the  hut  among  the  crags. 

Morag  seemed  nothing  loath  to  make  her 
escape.  She  quickly  resigned  Shag's  bridle  to 
the  old  coachman  and  was  turning  to  go,  when 
Mr.  Clifford,  opening  the  luncheon  basket,  took 
a  beautiful  bunch  of  grapes,  and  handed  them 
to  her,  saying,  "Here,  little  black-eyes,  take 
this  to  eat  on  the  way  home." 

Morag  lifted  the  dark  fringes,  and  looked 
timidly  up  for  a  moment,  then  a  pair  of  brown 
hands  were  held  out  to  receive  the  purple 
cluster.  The  tartan  skirt  touched  the  ground 
in  a  low  curtsey,  and  after  a  timid  glance  at  her 
bonnie  wee  leddy,  she  walked  slowly  off,  care- 
fully balancing  the  gift  in  both  hands. 

"  I  hope  she  will  eat  them  on  the  way  home, 
and  not  keep  them  for  her  father,"  said  Blanche, 


136  MO  RAG. 

sighing,  as  she  looked  fondly  after  her  little 
friend. 

"  AVhy,  Blanche  !  you  ungracious  little  per- 
son ;  do  you  really  object  to  my  gamekeeper 
having  a  share  of  all  the  good  things  going?" 
said  Mr.  Clifford. 

"  Yes  indeed,  I  do,  papa.  I  don't  think  the 
keeper  can  be  a  nice  man  at  all.  Only  fancy, 
he  has  quarrelled  with  that  nice  old  Kirsty,  and 
has  forbidden  Morag  to  speak  to  her  even  ;  and 
she  is  such  a  good  girl  she  will  not  do  it,  though 
she  wanted  to  know  Kirsty  for  ages." 

"  And  so  you  are  going  to  be  a  sort  of  dam- 
sel-errant, riding  forth  on  Shag  to  redress  all 
the  wrongs  and  quarrels  of  the  Glen,'5  laughed 
Mr.  Clifford,  as  he  looked  at  Blanche's  glowing 
face.  "Depend  upon  it  my  keeper  has  some 
very  good  reason  at  his  finger-ends  for  having 
quarrelled  with  this  same  Kirsty.  Perhaps  he 
found  her  poaching  ;  who  knows,  Blanchie  ?  " 

"  What's  that,  papa  ?  But  if  it's  anything 
wicked,  I'm  quite  sure  Kirsty  would  not  do  it. 
Is  poaching  wicked,  papa ;  and  what  is  it  ? " 

"  Just  you  ask  the  Major,  pussy !  Blanche 
has  got  a  knotty  question  for  you  to  solve, 
Seton,"  said  Mr.  Clifford,  turning  to  one  of  his 
guests.  "  She  wants  to  know  if  poaching  is 
wicked ! " 


KIR  STY  MA  CP HER  SON.  137 


"  But  I  want  first  to  know  what  poaching 
is,  because  papa  says  that  nice  old  woman  Kirsty 
may  have  been  poaching,  and  that  is  the  rea- 
son why  the  keeper  dislikes  her  so  much,"  said 
Blanche  eagerly,  as  she  joined  Major  Seton. 

"  Ah !  I  see.  You  want  to  know  what 
poaching  is,  and  you  reserve  the  right  of  decid- 
ing whether  it  is  right  or  not.  Very  proper," 
said  the  old  gentleman,  as  he  looked  kindly  at 
the  little  eager  face.  "  I'll  tell  you  what  game 
preservers  call  poaching ;  but,  perhaps,  if  you 
were  to  ask  your  friend  of  the  uncouth  name, 
she  might  not  give  you  exactly  the  same  de- 
scription of  the  word.  You  might  find  her  sit- 
ting down  to  sup  on  a  hare,  which  she  caught 
in  the  act  of  dining  off  her  nice  trim  row  of 
cabbages — some  of  which  she  meant  for  her 
own  dinner,  probably,  if  the  hare  hadn't  thought 
them  good  to  eat.  Perhaps  she  might  invite 
you  to  join  in  her  savory  supper,  and  you  might 
be  sitting  smacking  your  lips  over  it.  But, 
suddenly,  an  official-looking  individual  might 
pop  his  head  in  at  the  door  with  a  knowing 
look,  and  tapping  your  friend  on  the  shoulder, 
say,  in  a  stern  voice,  '  My  good  woman,  you 
must  come  with  me ;  you've  been  poaching.' 
And  if,  in  defence,  you  attempted  to  explain 
that  the  hare  was  treading  down  the  trim  gar- 


138  MORAG. 

den,  and  eating  the  cabbages  when  Kirsty  caught 
it,  '  Just  so,  little  girl,'  the  individual  would 
reply  ;  '  I  see  you're  in  possession  of  the  facts. 
This  woman  is  a  poacher,  and  must  be  commit- 
ted for  trial.  My  prisoner,'  he  would  say,"  and 
the  Major  finished  with  a  little  tap  on  Blanche's 
shoulder,  which  made  her  start  as  if  the  said 
official  were  at  her  elbow. 

"  So  that's  what  you  call  poaching  ? "  she 
said,  with  a  long-drawn  breath.  "  But,  Major 
Seton,  how  can  anybody  call  it  wicked  to  kill 
a  beast  that  is  destroying  one's  garden  when 
gentlemen  shoot  them  only  for  fun  on  the 
hills?" 

"  So  it  may  appear  to  our  philosophical 
minds,  Blanchie;  but  I  doubt  whether  your 
papa  and  his  gamekteper  will  take  quite  the 
same  view  of  the  matter.  Clifford,  your 
daughter  is  dead  set  against  the  game-laws. 
I  haven't  succeeded  in  making  her  view  poach- 
ing in  a  criminal  light.  She's  a  born  Radical, 
I  fear.  You  must  take  her  in  hand,  and 
teach  her  young  idea  how  to  shoot  in  a  proper 
Conservative  direction,"  said  the  pleasant  old 
gentleman  as  he  rolled  away,  but  his  love 
for  truth  brought  his  portly  figure  rolling  back 
again  the  next  minute.  "  I  say,  Blanchie,  dear, 
I'm  afraid  my  parable  was  decidedly  one-sided. 


KIRSTY  MACPHERSON.  139 

Remember  that  poachers  are  often  no  better 
than  common  thieves — stealing  a  gentleman's 
game  as  they  might  steal  his  watch  or  his 
umbrella,  if  they  had  the  chance.  So  don't 
go  romancing  in  your  tender  heart  over  the 
wrongs  of  poachers,  little  woman.  They  are 
often  great  rascals,  I  assure  you." 

"Well,  I  only  hope  papa  won't  ever  put 
a  nice  old  woman  into  prison  for  catching  a 
creature  that  was  spoiling  her  pretty  garden. 
But  do  you  know,  Major  Seton,"  added 
Blanche,  in  a  confidential  tone,  "  I  don't  like 
Dirigwall.  I  think  he  could  be  very  cruel 
and  unkind.  He  has  got  such  cruel  eyes — 
not  a  bit  like  Morag's.  I  don't  like  him  at 
all." 

"Why,  what  a  prejudiced  little  puss  it 
is,  to  be  sure.  What  ails  you  at  the  keeper  ? 
Is  it  a  case  of  the  unfortunate  typical  Doctor 
Fell,  I  wonder?"  But  just  then  Blanche  was 
summoned  to  tea,  and  the  reason,  if  she  had 
one,  of  her  dislike  to  the  keen-eyed  keeper  was 
not  forthcoming. 


MORAG' 8   VISIT  TO  KIR8TY,  AND  HOW  IT 
CAME  ABOUT. 

was  the  Sabbath-day.  Glen  Eagle 
was,  if  possible,  stiller  than  its  wont — 
efj§!£_  no  shepherd  shouted  upon  the  moun- 
tains ;  no  reapers  stood  among  the 
upland,  half-shorn  fields;  the  moor-fowl  had 
peace  that  day  among  the  heather,  unmo 
lested  by  dog  or  gun.  The  white,  motion- 
less clouds  on  the  deep  blue  sky,  as  well  as 
the  lower  landscape,  seemed  pervaded  by  that 
peculiar  stillness  which  Morag  always  noticed 
belonged  to  this  day,  though  it  brought  to 
her  no  sound  of  church  bells,  inviting  her 
to  mingle  her  worship  with  the  congregation. 
Sunday  was  always  a  very  lonely  day  in  the 
little  eyrie  among  the  mountains,  and  during 
these  past  weeks  they  had  seemed  specially 
empty  and  solitary  to  the  little  Morag.  For 
then  there  were  no  rambles  with  the  bonnie 
wee  leddy — indeed  she  seldom  saw  her  on 


VISIT  TO  KIRSTY.  \±\ 

these  days,  except  she  chanced  to  catch  a 
glimpse  of  her  from  afar,  as  she  was  driven 
past  in  an  open  carriage,  embedded  in  furs 
and  dazzling  with  bright  colors.  But  the 
little  gloved  hand  would  always  emerge  from 
the  furs  in  friendly  salute  if  Morag  was  in 
view,  and  the  blue  eyes  look  kindly,  and  often 
longingly,  down  on  the  little  mountain  maiden, 
who  would  stand  watching  the  shining  car- 
riage as  it  swept  swiftly  along  the  winding 
road,  and  listening  to  Blanche's  silvery  laugh 
as  it  echoed  among  the  silent  hills. 

But  on  this  Sunday  morning  Morag  did 
not  wander  down  the  hill,  as  usual,  when  her 
work  was  done,  in  the  hope  of  catching  a 
glimpse  of  the  people  from  the  castle.  She 
sat  very  disconsolately  on  the  turf  in  front 
of  the  hut,  watching  her  father  as  he  went 
down  the  hill  toward  the  kennels. 

The  keeper  had  gone  to  loose  the  dogs,  to 
take  them  for  a  long  walk,  which  he  always 
did  on  Sunday.  He  was  not  a  frequenter  of 
the  little  kirk  in  the  village,  and  somewhat 
disliked  the  cessation  from  his  ordinary  work 
which  the  day  of  rest  imposed.  This  morning 
he  had  gone  off  in  one  of  his  darkest  moods. 
Morag  was  used  to  his  periods  of  grim  silence ; 
but,  of  this  one,  she  thought  that  she  could 


142  MORAG. 

trace  the  cause,  and  she  pondered  ruefully 
over  the  utter  failure  of  the  wee  leddy's  san- 
guine plan  for  softening  the  keeper's  heart 
towards  Kirsty.  The  story  of  the  visit  to  the 
cottage,  and  her  share  in  it,  had  been  narrated 
on  the  previous  evening  to  her  father  without 
any  other  result  than  a  bitter  sneer,  as  he 
said,  "  Ye  did  weel,  Morag,  my  lass,  no  to 
darken  Kirsty  Macpherson's  door ;  and  gin  ye 
be  yer  ain  frien',  ye'll  jist  better  keep  that 
chatterin'  bit  leddy  outby." 

Morag  felt  as  if  she  had  received  a  blow, 
but  there  still  remained  one  other  arrow  in  her 
quiver,  and  she  drew  it  at  a  venture.  "But, 
father,  though  I  didna  speak  wi'  Kirsty,  I 
couldna  shut  my  ears  when  she  was  speakin', 
ye  see.  I  hae  a  bit  o'  a  message  for  ye  frae 
her — I'm  thinkin'  I  min'  upon  ilka  word  that 
she  said— this  was  it :  '  Will  ye  tell  Alaster 
Dingwall  that  auld  Kirsty  is  willin'  to  forgie 
him  ? '  There  was  some  more  I'm  thinkin', 
but  I  didna  hear  right,"  she  added  in  low, 
troubled  tones,  lowering  her  eyelashes,  and  not 
daring  to  look  into  her  father's  face. 

He  was  smoking  his  pipe  at  the  time,  and 
he  sat  gazing  gloomily  into  the  red  embers  on 
the  hearth  till  he  had  finished.  Morag  knew 
that  he  had  come  in  for  the  night,  so  she  was 


VISIT  TO  KIRSTY.  143 

not  a  little  surprised  to  see  him  refill  his  pipe 
again  and  prepare  to  go  out ;  but  he  gave  no 
explanation,  so  she  did  not  venture  to  ask  any 
questions.  It  was  a  fine  moonlight  night ; 
Morag  came  to  the  door  of  the  hut,  and  stood 
watching  him  as  he  sauntered  slowly  down  the 
hill,  and  went  in  the  direction  of  a  larch  plan- 
tation, some  distance  off,  which  looked  pale 
and  shadowy  in  the  clear  shimmering  light, 
with  its  background  of  dark  fir-trees  that 
stretched  beyond. 

These  larches  were  young  seventeen  years 
ago,  when  Dingwall  had  known  the  place  well ; 
and  a  crowd  of  strange  memories,  conjured  up 
by  Morag's  random  shot,  drew  him  towards  it 
to-night.  The  little  girl  had  sat  watching  and 
waiting  by  the  whitening  peat  embers  till  she 
grew  very  sleepy;  and  before  her  father  re- 
turned from  his  night  walk,  she  crept  away  to 
bed. 

So  this  bright  Sunday  morning  opened 
very  gloomily  for  the  inmates  of  the  hut  among 
the  crags.  Morag  had  taken  the  old  Bible 
from  the  depths  of -the  kist,  and  it  lay  open 
before  her  on  the  turf,  but  somehow  to-day 
she  felt  disinclined  for  the  slow  spelling  of 
the  words,  and  rather  disheartened  with  her 
progress  generally.  She  began  to  fear  that  her 


144  MO  RAG. 

eye  would  never  be  able  to  go  swiftly  down 
the  pages,  understanding  every  word  like  her 
little  teacher,  or  as  Blanche  had  said,  Kirsty 
was  able  to  do ;  and  then  her  thoughts  went 
back  to  the  events  of  yesterday.  How  sorry 
the  wee  leddy  would  be  to  hear  of  the  plan 
for  melting  the  keeper's  prejudice,  and  perhaps 
she  might  be  angry  and  call  her  rude  again 
the  next  time  she  refused  to  go  into  the  cot- 
tage. It  all  seemed  very  hard,  Morag  thought ; 
and,  as  she  sat  gazing  up  into  the  calm  sky 
with  its  motionless  clouds,  she  could  not  help 
thinking  how  very  far  away  it  seemed  from 
her  and  her  troubled  ways.  Presently  these 
sad  meditations  were  interrupted  by  the  reap- 
pearance of  her  father,  who,  to  her  great  sur- 
prise, seemed  to  be  coming  up  the  hill  again, 
with  the  dogs  all  scrambling  round  him.  He 
had  only  been  gone  a  few  minutes,  and  it  was 
his  custom  to  take  a  long  walk,  so  Morag  won- 
dered what  could  have  brought  him  back,  but 
she  did  not  venture  to  ask  any  questions.  He 
seated  himself  on  the  turf  beside  her,  and  after 
playing  with  the  dogs  for  a  little,  he  glanced  at 
her  with  a  half  smile,  and  said,  hurriedly — 

"Weel,  Morag,  lass,  is  yer  heid  as  sair 
turned  as  iver  aboot  that  auld  Kirsty  Macpher- 
son  ? " 


VISIT  TO  KIR  STY.  145 


"  She  looks  a  real  nice  old  woman,  father. 
I  canna  think  why  ye'll  no  let  me  speak  wi'  the 
like  o'  her.  She  surely  canna  be  an  ill  woman, 
as  ye  think,"  returned  Morag,  emboldened  by 
the  smile  on  her  father's  face. 

"  Wha  ever  said  she  was  an  ill  woman  ? " 
said  the  keeper,  looking  dark  again,  and  ignor- 
ing all  the  bitter  things  which  Morag  had  often 
heard  him  say  concerning  Kirsty.  "  We  did 
ance  quarrel,  but  I'll  no  say  I  wasna  maist  to 
blame.  Gin  Kirsty  Macpherson  speaks  a  ceevil 
word  to  ye  agin,  ye  needna  jist  athegither  haud 
yer  tongue,  lass.  D'ye  understand,  Morag  ? " 
asked  the  keeper,  getting  up  from  the  turf  as  if 
he  had  said  what  was  on  his  mind. 

Morag  could  hardly  believe  her  ears.  She 
sat  watching  her  father  go  down  the  hill  again, 
as  if  she  were  in  a  dream.  Presently  an  idea 
seemed  to  seize  her,  and  she  bounded  off  after 
him,  and  all  trembling  with  eagerness,  she 
said — 

"Father,  I'm  feert  Kirsty  will  be  thinkin' 
me  terrible  rude  for  no  speakin'  yestreen. 
Would  it  anger  ye  if  I  jist  ran  past  the  cottage 
to  see  if  she  was  outby?  I  needna  speak  gin 
she  doesna,  ye  ken." 

"  Oh  ay  ;  ye  can  gang  if  ye  like,  lass.  I'm 
thinkiu'  that  Kirsty  is  at  ween  ye  and  yer  wits, 
10 


146  MORAG. 

Morag,"  he  added,  smiling  at  the  earnest  face. 
"  Jist  tak'  a  brace  or  twa  o'  the  grouse  hangiu' 
there  wi'  ye.  The  auld  wife  will  think  mair  o' 
them  than  us."  . 

,  tMorag  was  bounding  back  to  the  hut  in  wild 
delight,  when  her  father  called  again,  "  Bide  a 
wee,  lass.  Ye  mustna  tak'  the  birds.  I  dinna 
think  she  would  athegither  like  sic  a  present 
frae  me." 

Morag  stood  rather  discomfited.  The  idea 
of  a  peace-offering  had  been  very  pleasant,  and 
it  was  disappointing  to  be  obliged  to  abandon 
it.  She  suddenly  remembered  the  purple  clus- 
ter of  grapes  which  Mr.  Clifford  gave  to  her 
the  day  before.  She  had  hidden  it  away  as  a 
delightful  surprise  for  her  father,  during  some 
period  of  to-day,  and  she  said,  doubtfully — 

"  I  was  keepin'  some  bonnie  Iberries  for 
ye  that  the  inaister  gied  me  yestreen  ;  but 
maybe  ye  wouldna  min'  if  I  gied  them  to 
Kirsty  ? " 

"  That'll  do  fine,  my  lass,"  cried  Dingwall, 
in  his  most  good-humored  tone,  as  he  disap- 
peared down  the  hill,  surrounded  by  the  scram- 
bling pointers  and  setters. 

In  a  very  short  time  after,  Morag  might 
have  been  seen  hovering  near  the  little  gate  of 
Kirsty's  cottage,  with  her  peace-offering  care- 


VISIT  TO  KIR  STY.  Uf 

fully  balanced  in  her  little  brown  hands.  A 
few  of  the  precious  moments  previous  to  set- 
ting out  had  been  spent  in  performing  a 
most  careful  toilette,  and  the  opinion  of  a  bro- 
ken corner  of  the  looking-glass  was  that  the 
black  locks  had  never  looked  so  smooth  and 
sleek  before.  Having  scampered  down  the  hill 
in  a  state  of  breathless  excitement,  she  did 
not  at  first  contemplate  the  bold  step  of  en- 
tering the  sacred  precincts  and  knocking  at 
Kirsty's  door,  as  the  wee  leddy  had  done. 
She  quite  counted  on  seeing  her  "outby" 
somewhere,  and  she  hung  about  on  the  roadside 
in  that  hope,  but  no  Kirsty  appeared.  Then 
Morag  remembered  that  it  was  Sunday,  and 
she  began  to  fear  that  the  old  woman  might 
have  gone  to  the  kirk.  The  little  girl  felt 
bitterly  disappointed  ;  for  she  felt  sure  that  this 
must  be  the  case,  since  Kirsty  was  not  visible 
anywhere,  and  no  smoke  came  from  the  tiny 
chimney  of  the  cottage.  If  she  lost  this  oppor- 
tunity, she  might  never  have  such  another. 
What  if  her  father  changed  his  mind  again? 
she  thought.  Indeed  it  seemed  hardly  possible 
to  believe  that  she  was  here  with  his  permission 
when  she  remembered  his  stern  command  on 
the  previous  evenings  that  she  was  never  to 
darken  Kirsty's  door.  At  last,  with  exhausted 


148  MORAG. 

patience,  she  resolved  to  take  the  bold  step  of 
entering  the  little  gate  and  tapping  at  the  door, 
for  had  she  not  a  peace-offering  ? — and  it  was 
just  possible  that  Kirsty  might  not  have  gone 
to  the  kirk  after  all. 

Many  a  time  in  after  years  Morag  Dingwall 
remembered  that  first  knocking  at  Kirsty's  door 
on  the  still  Sunday  morning,  and  smiled  a  quiet, 
thankful  smile  as  the  vision  of  the  eager,  breath- 
less little  girl,  standing  on  the  threshold  of  Life, 
rose  before  her  in  the  shadowy  distance  of  the 
Past. 

The  outer  door  stood  open,  but  nobody 
answered  the  knock,  though  Morag  fancied 
that  she  heard  some  movement  within.  The 
doors  of  both  but  and  T)en  were  closed,  but  she 
ventured  to  knock  again,  and  this  time  a  voice, 
which  seemed  to  sound  feebler  than  the  old 
woman's  did  on  the  previous  day,  called  "  Come 
ben." 

Morag  obeyed  the  call,  and  at  last  stood  in- 
side the  pretty  cottage  which  she  had  so  longed 
to  see.  The  room  looked  as  pretty  as  the  wee 
leddy  had  described  it,  but  the  arm-chair  at  the 
ingle-neuk  was  empty,  and  there  was  not  the 
faintest  glow  among  the  white  peat  embers  on 
the  hearth.  The  little  girl  looked  round  in 
dumb  surprise,  but  presently  a  voice  came  from 


VISIT  TO  KIRSTY.  149 


the  bed  in  the  dark-panelled  wall,  "  Eh,  lassie, 
but  is  this  you  ?  Ye're  the  keeper  Dingwall's 
bairn  'at  I  saw  yestreen — arna  ye  ? "  and 
Kirsty  raised  herself  in  bed,  and  holding  out 
her  hand,  smiled  kindly  on  the  little  Morag. 

"Are  ye  no  weel,  Kirsty?"  she  asked,  in 
low,  sympathizing  tones,  as  she  drew  near  the 
bed.  " 

"  I'm  nae  jist  verra  weel  the  day.  I  had 
a  bit  blastie  i'  the  nicht.  'Deed,  bairn,  I  some 
thocht  He  was  ga'en  to  tak'  me  name  til  Ilim- 
sel.  An'  fat's  brocht  ye  here  the  day,  my 
lassie  ?  "  said  Kirsty,  turning  kindly  to  the  shy 
little  Morag,  as  she  held  her  hand  in  her  long 
thin  fingers. 

"  I  brought  ye  some  bonnie  berries  the 
castle  folk  gied  me  yestreen.  Maybe  ye'll  tak' 
some,"  said  the  little  girl,  as  she'  lifted  the 
grapes  from  the  table  where  she  had  laid  them, 
and  put  them  on  the  bed. 

"  Eh,  bairn  !  but  that  was  terrible  mindfu' 
o'  ye.  They're  richt  bonnie  graps,  and  will 
cool  my  mou'.  'Deed,  they'll  be  the  first  thing 
I  hae  tasted  the  day."  Morag  felt  immensely 
gratified  when  Kirsty  plucked  a  grape  from 
the  purple  cluster  and  put  it  into  her  parched 
mouth.  She  was  now  seated  at  Kirsty's  bed- 
side, by  her  invitation,  and  began,  already,  to 


150  MORAG. 

feel  quite  happy  and  at  home  in  this  enchanted 
interior  of  her  dreams. 

"  I'm  richt  glaid  to  see  ye,  Morag,"  said  the 
old  woman,  smiling  kindly  on  her.  "  The  sicht 
o'  a  blythe  young  face  does  a  body  guid — and 
it's  a  rare  ane  to  me,  sin'  mony  a  lang  year,'' 
she  said,  sadly ;  and  then,  brightening,  she  ad- 
ded, "  But  we  canna  say  we're  unca  lonesome, 
when  we  can  hae  a  sicht  o'  His  ain  face,  gin  we 
lat  Him  in.  Eh,  bairn;  but  He's  aye  keepit 
His  word  wi'  me.  '  I'll  no  leave  ye  comfortless, 
I  will  come  to  ye,'  "  said  Kirsty,  as  she  closed 
her  eyes  and  laid  her  head  on  her  pillow  again. 

"  Ye'll  be  meanin'  the  Lord  Jesus,  arna  ye, 
Kirsty  ?  "  asked  Morag,  her  face  all  quivering 
with  eagerness.  "Then  He  does  come,  efter 
a'  ?  "  she  added,  triumphantly.  "  The  wee 
leddy  o'  the  castle  said  how  it  wasna  possible. 
I  would  like  richt  weel  to  see  Him,  mysel.  He 
maun  aye  come  i'  the  nicht,  surely,  for  I'll 
whiles  be  passin'  o'  this  road,  and  I  never  saw 
Him  goin'  inby." 

Kirsty  looked  at  the  eager,  young  face,  with 
a  shade  of  perplexity  in  her  calm,  gray  eyes. 
Morag  noticed  it,  and  felt  a  chill,  but  she  would 
not  give  it  up  yet.  "  It  will  be  the  Lord  Jesus 
who  comes  cheerin'  ye  when  ye're  feelin'  some 
lonesome  like,  isna  it,  Kirsty  ? " 


VISIT  TO  KIR  STY.  151 

"  Ay  is't,  my  bairn.  And  He's  willin'  to 
come  til  ye,  just  the  same.  It's  ane  o'  His  ain 
sweetest  words, '  Suffer  the  children  to  come.'  " 

"  But  Miss  Blanche  says  naebody  iver  saw 
Him,  and  that  He  doesna  go  aboot  healin'  and 
comfortin'  folk,  as  He  did  lang  syne.  I  dinna 
understan'  it  richt;  for  just  the  ither  day  she 
read  til  me  i'  the  fir-wood  that  He  cam'  oot  o' 
His  grave  efter  wicked  folk  killed  Him  deid 
on  the  green  hill,  and  was  speakin'  real  kind 
.to  the  woman  that  was  cryin'  inby  there.  I 
would  like  weel  to  see  Him,  Kirsty.  I  dinna 
think  I  would  be  feert." 

"  Eh,  my  bairn,  but  I  see  fat  ye  would  be 
at,  noo.  But  ye're  jist  for  a'  the  earth  like 
the  onbelievin'  Thamas,  that  wouldna  rest  sat- 
isfeid  till  he  pit  his  fingers  intil  His  maister's 
Terra  side.  "We  mauna  forget  that  He  says 
Himsel,  '  Blessed  are  they  who  dinna  see,  and 
yet  believe.' " 

Kirsty's  Biblical  illustration  was  too  much 
advanced  to  suit  the  little  untaught  maiden, 
but  she  gathered  enough  from  it  to  begin  to 
fear  that  the  wee  leddy  must  be  right  after  all, 
and  presently  she  said,  in  a  mournful  tone — 

"  Then,  Kirsty,  it's  true  that  we  canna  see 
His  face  nor  hear  Him  speakin'  no  more  at 
all  ? " 


152  MORAG. 

"  ~No  wi'  the  eye  o'  sense,  my  bairn.  '  The 
warl  seeth  me  nae  mair ;  but  ye  see  me,'  He 
says  Himsel',  and  He  aye  keeps  His  word. 
Jist  ye  get  a  sight  o'  Him  wi'  the  eye  o'  faith, 
bairn,  and  it  will  mak'  ye  rejoice  and  be  glaid 
a'  yer  days  ;  "  and  the  old  woman  turned  with 
a  radiant  smile  to  the  little  girl,  who  sat  gaz- 
ing wistfully,  with  folded  hands. 

It  was  evident  that  this  good  Lord  was  a 
real  present  person  to  Kirsty,  however  shad- 
owy might  be  the  conception  which  Morag 
could  at  present  form  of  Him.  But  to  under- 
stand in  any  degree  that  He  was  a  real,  pres- 
ent friend,  though  unseen,  was  more  than  Mo- 
rag  could  know,  just  then. 

The  yellow  autumn  sun  came  streaming  in 
at  the  little  window,  and  shone  on  Kirsty's 
face,  showing  how  wan  and  wearied  it  was 
after  her  sleepless  night.  Morag  was  full  of 
motherly,  ministering  instincts,  and  it  made 
her  little  heart  ache  to  see  the  kind  old  woman 
look  so  ill  and  feeble.  Glancing  at  the  cold 
hearth,  she  remembered,  wondering  how  she 
could  have  been  so  long  of  thinking  about  it, 
that  Kirsty  could  not  have  had  any  breakfast 
yet,  and  must  be  cold  and  faint  for  want  of  it. 

"  Wouldna  ye  be  better  wi'  a  cup  o'  tea, 
Kirsty  ?  I'll  jist  licht  a  bit  fire,  and  be  puttin 


VISIT  TO  KIR  STY.  153 


the  kettle  on,"  said  Morag,  as  she  rose  and 
began  to  break  some  dead  branches  which 
Kirsty's  careful  fingers  had  gathered  in  the 
gloaming  on  the  evening  before.  . 

"  'Deed,  bairn,  I  would  tak'  it  richt  kin'  o' 
ye,"  replied  Kirsty,  who  had  always  the  good 
grace  to  receive  a  favor  simply. 

The  branches  soon  began  to  crackle  mer- 
rily, the  peats  caught  the  glow,  and  the  kettle 
commenced  to  sing  in  the  midst  of  the  cheerful 
blaze.  Morag  moved  quietly  about,  filled  with 
contentment  that  she  was  able  to  be  of  use  to 
Kirsty.  She  had  shut  her  eyes,  and  was  lying 
quietly,  so  Morag  did  not  trouble  her  with 
questions,  but  seemed  to  know  by  instinct 
where  all  the  component  parts  of  a  cup  of  tea 
were  to  be  gathered.  When  Kirsty  opened 
her  eyes  again,  it  was  to  see  the  little  maiden 
standing  by  her  bedside  with  the  restoring  bev- 
erage all  ready,  and  a  bit  of  beautiful  toasted 
bread  into  the  bargain. 

"  Eh,  but  it's  unca  kin'  to  be  comin'  minis- 
term'  til  an  auld  body  like  me,"  said  the  old 
woman,  as  she  sat  up  in  bed.  "  But  winna  yer 
faither  be  wonderiri'  what's  come  ower  ye  ?  ye 
mauna  anger  him,  ye  ken." 

"  Wha  wad  hae  thocht  that  Alaster  Ding 
wall's  bairn  would  be  makin1  a  cup  o'  tay  tii 


154  MO  RAG. 

auld  Kirsty  ? "  continued  the  old  woman  in  a 
soliloquy,  as  Morag  washed  the  cup  and  plate 
when  she  had  finished  her  breakfast,  and  re- 
placed them  among  the  rows  of  shining  delf. 
How  very  clean  and  pretty  they  looked,  Morag 
thought ;  and  she  resolved  that  she  would  im- 
mediately arrange  the  slender  stock  of  unbroken 
dishes  belonging  to  the  hut  after  the  same 
fashion,  and  make  them  look  bright  and  shining 
too.  Then  she  proceeded  to  build  up  the  fire 
with  skilful  fingers,  and  surveyed  the  room, 
with  a  thoughtful  air,  to  see  what  the  possible 
wants  for  the  day  might  be.  The  pitcher 
which  held  the  supply  of  water  was  almost 
empty,  so  Morag  ran  quickly  down  to  the 
spring  under  the  tree,  and  brought  it  back  re- 
filled, and  then  she  poured  some  into  a  cup  and 
set  it  by  Kirsty's  bed.  "  Thank  ye  kindly, 
bairn.  The  Lord  reward  ye  for  yer  helpin'  o' 
an  auld  frail  craeter.  Afore  ye  gang,  wad  ye 
jist  rax  me  that  Bible,  an'  maybe  ye  wad  read 
a  bittie  til  me  ;  my  eyes  are  some  dim  the 
day?" 

"  I  would  be  richt  glaid  to  read  to  ye, 
Kirsty,  but  I  canna  read  ony,"  replied  Morag, 
sadly,  with  an  ashamed  look  ;  and  then  she 
added,  "  the  wee  leddy's  been  try  in'  to  learn 
me,  though,  and  maybe  I'll  be  fit  to  read  to  ye. 


VISIT  TO  KIRSTY.  155 


some  day,  but  it'll  no  be  for  a  lang  time  yet, 
I'm  thinkin'." 

"  Eh,  my  puir  bairn,  I  never  tliocht  but  ye 
could  read.  'Deed  it  was  ill  dime  o'  the 
keeper  nae  to  sen'  ye  til  the  schule,"  remarked 
Kirsty,  in  a  more  severe  tone  than  she  gener- 
ally used. 

"  How  could  he  sen'  me  til  the  schule,  and 
it  such  a  laug  road  frae  this, — and  him  aye 
ueedin'  me  forby,"  replied  Morag,  kindling  up 
in  her  absent  parent's  defence. 

lf  Weel,  weel,  bairn  ;  maybe  I  shouldna  hae 
been  judgin'.  We're  a'  ready  eneuf  at  that. 
But  gin  ye'll  come  to  see  me,  whiles,  when  I'm 
a  bit  stronger  like,  I'll  gie  ye  a'  the  help  wi' 
the  reading  'at  I  can.  I've  a  gey  curran  buiks 
there." 

"  I'll  be  real  glaid  to  come  back  and  see  ye, 
and  I'm  thinkin'  father  will  no  hinder  me,  noo. 
I  maun  be  goin'  hame,  but  I'll  try  and  get 
back  the  morn,  to  speir  how  ye're  keepin'.  I'm 
real  sorry  to  leave  ye  yer  lone,  Kirsty,"  said 
Morag,  pityingly,  as  she  glanced  at  the  lonely, 
frail  old  woman.  Then  she  remembered  what 
Kirsty  said  about  not  being  lonesome  when  the 
Lord  Jesus  was  with  her,  and  she  added,  "  I'm 
thinkin'  when  I'm  awa,  ye'll  jist  be  speakin' 
til  Him — the  good  Lord,  ye  ken." 


156  MORAG. 

"  Aye,  that  will  I  my  bairn  ;  an'  I  lioup 
ye'll  learn  to  speak  wi'  Him  yersel.  It's 
His  ain  blessed  Word,  that  them  that  hungers 
efter  Him  will  be  filled.  'Deed  but  I'm  richt 
glad  ye're  ta'en  up  aboot  Him,  Morag.  There's 
whiles  He  stands  at  the  door  o'  bairns'  hairts 
and  knocks,  and  they  winna  lat  Him  in ;  but 
tak'  their  ain  foolish,  sorrowfu'  gait.  Keep  on 
seekiii'  Him,  and  ye'll  surely  get  a  sicht  o'  His 
face  or  lang.  It's  jist  as  plain  as  gin  ye  saw 
Himsel'  i'  the  body,  like  the  woman  at  His 
grave.  Now,  bairn,  ye  mauna  bide  a  minute 
langer.  Yer  faither  will  be  wonderin'  what's 
come  ower  ye,"  said  Kirsty,  looking  uneasily 
at  Morag,  who  had  seated  herself  again,  and 
seemed  inclined  to  linger.  "  Tak'  this  bonnie 
word  wi'  ye  oot  o'  His  ain  Beuk,"  she  added, 
smiling  on  the  little,  grave,  perplexed  face  that 
looked  into  hers.  " '  Them  'at  seek  me  early 
shall  fin'  me.'  Good-day,  Morag,  and  haste  ye 
back." 

Morag  was  soon  crossing  the  breezy  heather 
road  on  her  way  home,  with  a  very  happy 
heart,  only  disturbed  by  a  slight  feeling  of 
anxiety  lest  her  father  should  have  relapsed 
into  his  old  state  of  feeling  towards  Kirsty, 
and  she  should  be  hindered  from  another  visit 
to  the  cottage. 


vin. 

THE  GYPSIES  AT  LAST. 

JNE  pleasant  day,  when  the  woods  and 
hills  of  Glen  Eagle  were  lying  in  the 
yellow  afternoon  sunshine,  Morag  and 
Blanche  wandered  into  their  old  tryst- 
ing-place,  the  fir-wood,  which  they  had  rather 
deserted  of  late. 

The  precious  holiday  afternoons  had  most 
frequently  been  spent  in  the  ben-end  of  Kirsty's 
cottage,  and  a  staunch  friendship  had  sprung 
up  between  the  old  woman  and  the  little  girls. 
These  visits  had  become  a  great  and  daily  hap- 
piness to  Morag.  Kirsty's  illness  lasted  for 
some  time,  and  Morag  often  thought  that  but 
for  it  she  should  never  have  felt  so  much  at 
home  in  the  cottage,  which  she  had  so  long 
watched  from  afar  with  a  mingled  feeling  of 
curiosity  and  dislike ;  and  now  she  knew  every 
stone  and  cupboard  of  it  by  heart.  For  had 
she  not  helped  Kirsty  on  her  recovery  to  make 
a  thorough  cleaning  of  both  but  and  ben,  for 
which  the  old  woman's  active  fingers  had 


158  MORAG. 

longed,  as  soon  as  she  was  "to  the  fore"  again. 
Already,  the  little  untaught  maiden  had  learnt 
from  her  old  friend  many  useful  household  arts 
and  wise  maxims,  and  the  keeper's  home  began 
to  bear  traces  of  Kirsty's  thrifty  ways  and 
cleanly  habits.  Every  morning  during  the  old 
woman's  illness,  Morag  had  started  for  the  cot- 
tage after  her  own  work  was  done,  taking  the 
short  cut  through  the  heather,  and  gathering, 
as  she  went,  a  little  bundle  of  sticks  for  the 
fire-lighting.  Then,  after  Kirsty's  morning 
wants  were  supplied — and  she  was  not  an 
exacting  invalid — Morag  would  take  her  seat 
on  a  little  low  wooden  stool  "which  Kirsty 
named  "  Thrummy,"  from  its  being  covered 
with  shreds  of  cloth  fastened  to  the  wood.  It 
was  made  by  her  long  ago  for  a  vanished  child, 
who  once  had  been  the  light  of  that  now  lonely 
home.  Morag  often  sat  on  it  in  these  days, 
listening  with  eager,  upturned  face  to  Kirsty's 
solemn  reading  of  the  book  she  loved.  Her 
rough  northern  tongue  sounded  very  different 
from  the  silvery  flow  of  the  little  English  lady ; 
but  Morag  felt  that  the  words  •which  she  heard 
in  the  cottage  were  no  mere  tale  to  Kirsty, 
"  no  vain  thing,  but  her  life." 

Slowly,  the  words  of  Jesus  began  to  sink 
into  the  little  girl's  heart,  and  gradually  she 


THE  GYPSIES  AT  LAST.  159 

came  to  understand,  after  the  first  chill  of  dis- 
appointment was  past,  that  though  the  earthly 
voice  of  the  Son  of  Man  was  heard  no  longer, 
nor  His  ministering  touch  felt  among  the  peo- 
ple, as  it  used  to  be  in  those  early  days  of 
which  the  Gospels  told,  yet  He  was  still  the 
loving,  listening  Helper  of  all  who  came  to 
Him.  Kirsty's  belief  that  He  was  not  dead, 
nor  very  far  away,  but  a  very  present  Friend 
to  be  listened  to  and  spoken  to  at  all  times 
with  a  certainty  that  He  would  both  hear  and 
help,  had  in  some  degree  penetrated  Morag's 
soul ;  and  she,  too,  ventured  to  bring  her  little 
cares  and  troubles  to  this  new-found  Friend, 
and  had  already  a  spiritual  record  of  help 
given  and  difficulties  met  in  the  name  and 
strength  of  Jesus.  . 

And  so  it  happened  that  Kirsty's  cottage 
became  quite  a  rival  to  the  fir-wood,  which 
seemed  to  Morag  like  a  dearly-loved,  but  neg- 
lected friend,  as  she  trod  among  the  soft  moss 
and  brown  fir-needles  on  this  afternoon.  After 
visiting  a  few  of  the  historical  spots  sacred  to 
the  memory  of  the  first  days  of  their  acquaint- 
ance, Blanche  proposed  that  they  should  make 
an  exploring  tour  to  a  part  of  the  forest  which 
she  had  never  visited ;  and  the  little  girls  made 
their  way  through  the  fir-trees  to  where  the 


160  MORAG. 

» 

shadows  were  darkest,  and  the  arching  green 
boughs  almost  shut  out  the  day.  Blanche  was 
gay  and  talkative  as  usual,  dancing  hither  and 
thither,  singing  snatches  of  songs,  and  making 
the  great  aisles  of  pine  re-echo  with  her  laugh- 
ter and  fun.  She  kept  stopping  as  usual  to 
gather  various  treasures  from  the  great  floor 
of  the  forest — "  specimens,"  she  called  them  ; 
but  it  is  to  be  feared  that  they  never  reached 
a  calm  state  of  museum  classification.  Blanche 
meant  that  these  "  specimens"  should  travel  to 
London  with  her — and  stowed  them  away  in 
corners  of  her  room  with  that  intention,  though 
her  design  was  frustrated  in  most  cases,  how- 
ever, by  their  being  deposited  in  the  dust-bin 
by  Ellis,  while  she  remarked  to  cook  that  she 
"  never  did  see  the  like  of  missy  for  fillin'  her 
room  with  rubbage  of  all  kinds." 

Chance  had  chosen  to  remain  at  home  on 
this  afternoon,  notwithstanding  Blanche's  pres^ 
sing  invitation  that  he  should  accompany  them. 
He  had  replied  to  it  by  shaking  his  head, 
knowingly,  as  if  to  say,  "No,  no,  my  little 
mistress,  I'm  not  going  to  be  taken  in.  Shag 
is  not  going,  I  see ;  so  you  are  only  going  to 
loiter  about  in  an  aimless  manner,  and  I  should 
certainly  be  bored.  Much  nicer  here,"  he 
thought,  as  he  stretched  himself  lazily  on  the 


THE  G YPSIES  AT  LAST.  161 


warm  stones  of  the  old  court-yard,  where  the 
sun  was  striking,  and  snapped  at  a  fly, — pre- 
tending to  look  the  other  way  when  Blanche 
made  her  final  appeal  to  his  honor  and  con- 
science. Perhaps  he  felt  a  few  twinges  of  re- 
morse at  having  so  deter  mi  nately  chosen  to 
neglect  his  duty,  for  he  rose  presently  and 
stood  looking  after  the  girls  as  they  disap- 
peared among  the  birk-trees ;  but  he  did  not 
repent,  evidently,  for  he  went  and  lay  down 
again,  deciding  that  there  was  no  use  of  a  fel- 
low putting  himself  about  for  two  silly  little 
girls  on  a  hot  afternoon  like  this. 

Morag  arid  Blanche  wandered  into  the  for- 
est till  they  reached  the  old  road  skirted  by  a 
low,  lichen-spotted  wall,  which  was  the  en- 
trance to  the  glen,  and  divided  the  forest. 
And  now  Morag's  clock — the  afternoon  sun — 
told  her  that  it  was  more  than  time  for  them 
to  be  turning  their  steps  in  a  homeward  direc- 
tion,— especially  since,  that  very  afternoon, 
before  they  started,  she  had  received  strict  in- 
junctions from  Miss  Pr.osser  to  see  that  her 
charge  was  not  again  late  for  tea,  since  the 
night  of  time  seemed  to  pass  quite  unnoticed 
by  Miss  Clifford.  It  was  by  no  means  an  easy 
matter  to  be  time-keeper  to  such  an  inconse- 
quent young  lady  as  Blanche,  who  never  re- 
11 


162  MORAG. 

alized  the  unpleasantness  of  being  late  till  she 
was  brought  face  to  face  with  Miss  Prosser. 
She  was  now  wandering  about  in  all  direc- 
tions, adding  to  her  lapful  of  gatherings,  and 
talking  pleasant  nonsense,  while  Morag's  rare 
laugh  was  sometimes  heard  joining  in  her 
merriment. 

At  last  they  started  on  their  homeward 
way,  and  Morag  was  congratulating  herself 
that  she  would  be  able  to  present  her  erratic 
wee  leddy  in  time  for  tea,  when  Blanche  no- 
ticed a  plantation  of  larches,  which  looked  so 
pretty  and  feathery  through  the  dark  firs  that 
she  thought  she  should  like  to  inspect  them 
more  closely,  and  coaxed  Morag  to  come  on 
with  her. 

An  old  grey  dyke  separated  the  fir  forest 
from  the  larches.  The  girls  followed  its  wind- 
ings for  a  little,  and  presently  Blanche  climbed 
across  the  loose  stones,  and  went  a  little  way 
into  the  larch  plantation  to  explore.  Morag 
felt  impatient  to  proceed,  and  walked  on  to  try 
and  discover  which  would  be  the  most  direct 
route  home  through  the  firs.  Presently  she 
heard  a  sound,  which  her  accustomed  ear  de- 
tected as  an  unusual  one  in  that  silent  sanctuary 
of  hers.  She  hastily  turned  a  sharp  corner  to 
see  what  the  next  winding  of  the  dyke  would 


THE  G YPSIES  AT  LAST.  163 


disclose,  and,  in  doing  so,  she  almost  ran  up 
again  a  sort  of  tent.  It  was  a  very  rude  erec- 
tion, and  consisted  of  a  few  large  branches 
which  had  been  driven  loosely  into  the  ground, 
and  partly  rested  against  the  old  wall  for  sup- 
port. A  tarpauling  was  thrown  over  them,  but 
it  was  evidently  too  small  to  cover  the  abode, 
and  was  supplemented  by  a  tartan  plaid,  which 
hung  across  the  front  stakes,  so  that  no  entrance 
was  visible.  This  was  not  Nature's  doing,  evi- 
dently, and  Morag  was  seized  with  a  great  panic 
when  she  saw  the  unexpected  human  habitation. 
She  had  heard  wild  stories  of  terrible  deeds  done 
on  lonely  moors  and  in  lonely  woods,  and  felt 
more  frightened  than  she  had  ever  done  in  her 
life  when  she  thought  how  far  they  were  from 
home,  and  that  the  precious  wee  leddy  was  un- 
protected, save  by  her.  However,  she  saw  no 
terrific  personage  as  yet,  and  she  began  to  hope 
that  the  inmates  of  the  tent  might  be  from 
home.  But  there  was  that  sound  again,  and 
this  time  it  seemed  like  the  moaning  of  a  voice 
in  pain.  Morag  felt  that  safety  lay  in  imme- 
diate flight,  and  she  quietly  turned  to  meet 
Blanche,  and  to  make  a  sign  of  silence.  But, 
before  she  had  time  to  do  so,  the  wee  leddy's 
voice  rang  out  in  gleeful  tones,  concerning  the 
varied  delights  of  the  larch  plantation,  which 


164  MORAG. 

the  dwellers  under  the  tartan  could  not  fail  to 
hear.  Whenever  Blanche  caught  a  glimpse  of 
Morag's  startled  face,  she  knew  that  there  must 
be  something  very  far  wrong,  and  she  stood  look- 
ing at  her  in  questioning  silence.  Presently, 
a  rustling  sound  made  them  both  turn,  and 
Blanche's  eye  caught  sight  of  the  rude  tent. 
For  a  moment  she  stood  riveted  gazing  at  it, 
while  Ellis's  stories  and  prophecies  concerning 
the  gypsies  chased  each  other  through  her  mind, 
and  she  thought  with  terror  that  they  had  all 
come  true  at  last. 

Presently  there  was  a  fluttering  of  the  tar- 
tan awning,  and  a  hand  appeared  among  its 
fringes,  as  if  to  make  a  passage  out. 

Blanche's  face  grew  white  with  fear,  and  she 
clutched  Morag's  arm  with  a  scream  of  terror. 
The  little  mountain  maiden  kept  quite  silent, 
though  her  face  looked  as  terror-stricken  as  that 
of  her  companion.  Seizing  Blanche's  arm,  she 
began  to  pull  her  along,  running  as  nearly  as 
possible  in  a  homeward  direction.  On  they  gal- 
loped, breathless  and  speechless  ;  but  the  fir  nee- 
dles were  slippery,  and  the  trees  were  in  the  way. 

h  t  last  Morag  felt  that  the  wee  leddy's  steps 
were  beginning  to  flag  ;  and,  worse  than  all,  she 
fancied  that  she  heard  footsteps  behind.  It 
was  a  terrible  effort,  but  the  suspense  began 


THE  G YPSIES  AT  LAST.  165 


to  be  insupportable,  and  without  slackening  her 
pace  she  turned  to  look.  There,  sure  enough, 
was  a  man  behind  them,  gaining  ground  upon 
them  very  fast,  too.  Poor  Blanche  kept  up 
bravely  in  the  race  for  a  while,  but  now  she 
began  to  fail.  First,  her  hat  fell  off,  and  even 
Morag  did  not  venture  to  turn  to  pick  it  up  ; 
then  her  lapful  of  gatherings  dropped  one  by 
one,  tripping  her  as  they  fell ;  finally  she  stum- 
bled, and  the  golden  crown  was  down,  down 
among  the  fir-needles,  and  the  tears  were  fall- 
ing fast.  ]STo  entreaties  of  Morag's  could  per- 
suade her  to  move,  and  the  footsteps  of  the 
pursuer  sounded  nearer  every  minute.  The 
little  mountaineer  could  have  outrun  almost 
anybody,  but  she  never  dreamt  of  leaving 
Blanche;  and  now  she  seated  herself  quietly 
beside  her  bonnie  wee  leddy,  determined  to 
protect  her  to  the  death.  In  her  distress  she 
cried  to  the  unseen,  listening  Friend,  whom  in 
these  last  days  she  had  been  learning  to  know  : 
"  O  Lord  Jesus,  dinna  let  the  gypsies  get  hand 
o'  us ;  and  may  no  ill  come  ower  the  bonnie 
wee  leddy  here,"  she  added  as  she  seized  her 
hand,  and  made  a  last  eft'ort  to  rouse  her  to  run 
again.  She  knew  that  the  pursuer,  whoever  he 
might  be,  must  be  close  at  hand  now,  but  she 
did  not  dare  to  look  back.  Blanche  at  last 


106  MORAG. 

raised  her  head,  and  now,  for  the  first  time, 
she  heard  the  sound  of  the  footsteps  behind. 
With  a  shriek  of  terror  she  rose  to  run  again  ; 
Morag  followed,  but  this  time  she  did  not  feel 
quite  so  frightened,  somehow,  as  she  had  done 
before,  and,  at  last,  a  sudden  impulse  caused 
her  to  turn  round  to  face  her  pursuer,  and 
await  her  fate. 

Hurrying  through  the  fir  trees,  she  saw, 
not  a  terrific-looking  gypsy,  but  a  pale,  slender 
boy,  with  a  gentle-looking  face,  considerably 
taller  than  herself.  He  was  signing  to  her, 
and  called  something  when  he  saw  her  turn 
round  at  last.  Morag's  terror  began  to  abate 
in  some  degree,  and  the  boy  presently  joined 
her,  breathless  after  his  chase,  and  rather  fright- 
ened-looking also.  He  was  holding  Blanche's 
hat  in  his  hand,  which  he  shyly  restored  to 
Morag.  "  She  dropt  it,"  he  said,  pointing  to 
Blanche,  who  still  continued  to  run  at  full 
speed  without  turning  to  look.  The  restora- 
tion of  the  dropped  hat  looked  promising  ;  Mo- 
rag began  to  feel  reassured,  and  at  the  same 
time  rather  ashamed  of  herself. 

"  "Will  you  be  so  kind  as  tell  me  where  I 
can  find  some  water?"  asked  the  boy  in  a  quiet 
tone ;  "  we  are  strangers,  and  mother  is  very 
sick ; "  and  his  voice  faltered. 


THE  GYPSIES  A  T  LAST.  167 


Morag's  little  motherly  heart  was  melted 
in  an  instant.  "  I'm  real  sorry  yer  mother's 
no  weel,"  she  replied  in  sympathizing  tones. 
"  I'll  maybe  find  a  drop  o'  water  for  ye,  but 
it's  some  far  frae  here.  The  wee  leddy  and 
me  were  terribly  frightened,  and  we  couldna 
jist  help  runnin',"  she  added  apologetically. 

Blanche  had  halted  in  her  flight,  not  hear- 
ing Morag's  step  behind,  and  her  astonish- 
ment was  as  great  as  her  terror  had  been  the 
previous  moment  when  she  turned  and  saw 
Morag  calmly  engaged  in  conversation  with 
the  object  of  their  fear.  She  did  not  venture 
to  join  them  ;  but  a  feeling  of  curiosity,  which 
is  a  great  dispeller  of  fear,  took  possession  of 
her,  and  she  stood  waiting  breathlessly  to  see 
what  was  going  to  happen  next. 

Presently  Morag  came  running  to  her  to 
explain  and  consult.  The  lad  slowly  followed, 
looking  rather  more  abashed  than  before,  when 
he  saw  Blanche.  He  turned  to  Morag  again 
and  said,  eagerly,  "Will  you  not  come  and 
see  my  mother?  I  think  it  might  cheer  her 
to  see  you.  We  have  come  a  long  way, 
and  the  water  is  done,  and  she  is  so  tired  and 
thirsty.  I'm  afraid  she  is  very  ill — she  says 
she's  dying."  It  was  a  fine  manly  face ;  but 
the  gray  eyes  filled  with  tears  as  he  looked 


168  MO  RAG. 

imploringly,  first  at  one  and  then  at  the  other 
of  the  little  girls. 

"  Oh  yes,  certainly ;  we  shall  be  glad  to  go 
and  see  your  mother.  I  do  hope  she  is  not 
so  very  ill.  And,  of  course,  we  must  find 
some  water,  though  we  have  to  go  right  home 
for  it,  Morag,"  said  the  impulsive  little  Blanche, 
every  trace  of  her  former  fear  having  vanished 
in  a  moment.  "  You  must  have  thought  it 
very  queer  of  Morag  and  me  to  run  away  as 
we  did.  But,  indeed,  we  were  dreadfully 
frightened,  and  quite  thought  you  were  dan- 
gerous gypsies,  you  know." 

The  boy's  face  flushed,  but  he  made  no 
reply.  Meanwhile,  Morag  was  silently  plan- 
ning what  would  be  the  best  thing  to  do.  It 
was  now  more  than  time  that  Blanche  should 
have  returned  to  the  castle,  and  yet  here  was 
an  appeal  which  it  would  require  a  harder 
heart  than  Morag's  to  resist. 

"  Of  course  we  must  help  him,  Morag," 
whispered  Blanche,  noticing  her  hesitation. 
"Don't  you  see  how  sad  he  is  about  his  sick 
mother?  I  really  don't  think  there  could  be 
any  harm  in  going  to  see  her.  He  seems 
so  very  anxious.  Come,  let's  go  for  one  min- 
ute." 

And  so  they  turned  to  retrace  their  steps 


THE  GYPSIES  AT  LAST.  169 


along  the  path  over  which  they  had  hurried  in 
such  terror  a  few  minutes  before,  with  their 
dreaded  pursuer  walking  calmly  and  inoffen- 
sively by  their  side. 

When  they  reached  the  tent,  Morag  recog- 
nized the  moaning  voice  which  had  at  first 
roused  her  alarm.  The  boy  drew  aside  the 
tartan  folds  and  stepped  in  before  them,  and 
presently  they  heard  a  feeble  voice  say,  "  Ken- 
neth !  Kenneth !  you've  been  long  away. 
Don't  leave  me,  my  boy — it  won't  be  long 
now  you'll  have  to  stay.  I  would  like  to  have 
lived  to  see  her,  though.  "We  must  surely 
be  near  the  place  now.  The  last  milestone 
said  three  miles  from  the  kirk  town  of  Glen 
Eagle,  didn't  it?  The  Highlander  said  she 
was  still  alive,  you  know.  You'll  seek  her  out 
when  I'm  gone — she's  good  and  kind,  he  al- 
ways said.  Bring  her  here,  and  she'll  help 
you  with  everything  there  will  be  to  do — after 
I'm  gone.  I  would  fain  have  seen  her  once  be- 
fore I  died,  though ;  but  you'll  tell  her  I  have 
gone  to  meet  her  long  lost  Kenneth,  who  is 
safe  in  the  happy  home  of  God.  You  will 
follow  Jesus,  and  He  will  lead  you  safe  home, 
my  boy." 

Morag  had  been  listening  intently  to  the 
feeble,  broken  sentences,  and  now  she  could 


170  MORAG. 

hear  that  Kenneth  gave  a  great  sob,  as  he  said, 
'  O  mother  !  don't  speak  like  that !  I'm  sure 
you'll  feel  better  again,  when  we  find  grand- 
mother. You've  often  been  nearly  as  ill  before. 
There's  a  nice  little  girl  I  met  in  the  wood, 
going  to  try  to  get  some  water,  and  maybe 
you'll  be  better  after  you  get  a  drink." 

"A  girl  did  you  say,  Kenny?  where  is 
she  ? "  asked  the  sick  woman,  turning  restlessly 
about. 

Kenneth  drew  aside  the  tartan  screen,  and 
beckoned  to  Morag,  who  stepped  in  softly,  fol- 
lowed by  Blanche. 

In  a  corner  of  the  tent,  on  some  loose  straw, 
lay  the  dying  woman,  with  her  head  resting  on 
one  of  the  lichen-spotted  stones  of  the  old  dyke. 
She  turned  her  large,  bright,  restless  eyes  on 
the  little  girls  as  they  entered  the  tent.  Rais- 
ing herself  a  little,  so  that  she  might  see  the 
strangers,  she  said,  in  a  feeble,  though  excited 
tone,  "  I'm  very  ill,  you  see.  I've  come  a  long, 
long  way  to  die  in  this  lonely  forest.  I  didn't 
think  once  that  I  should  end  my  days  like 
this."  A  fit  of  coughing  came  on,  and  after  it 
was  over  she  lay  back  exhausted. 

Blanche  had  never  seen  anybody  very  ill 
before,  and  she  felt  rather  afraid  of  the  bright, 
hollow  eyes  and  the  strange  sound  of  the  short, 


THE  G YPSIES  AT  LAST.  171 


gasping  breath,  and  was  much  relieved  when 
Morag  stepped  forward  and  put  her  little 
brown  hand  into  the  white,  wasted  fingers. 
The  little  girl  could  not  think  of  anything  to 
say,  but  she  stood,  with  a  pitying  look,  holding, 
the  hand  of  the  sick  woman,  who  seemed 
pleased,  and  smiled  kindly  on  her.  Suddenly 
she  seemed  to  recollect  something,  and  starting 
up,  she  asked  Morag,  in  an  eager  tone,  "  Can 
you  tell  me  where  Glen  Eagle  is?  it  surely 
can't  be  far  from  here ; ''  and  before  Morag 
had  time  to  reply,  she  added,  "  Did  you  ever 
hear  of  a  Mrs.  Macpherson  who  lives  near 
there,  in  a  little  cottage  all  alone  ? " 

Morag  pondered  for  a  moment,  and  then, 
turning  to  Blanche,  she  said,  "  "Will  that  no  be 
Kirsty  ? " 

"  Yes,  yes  ;  it  is  Kirsty  !  Christian  was  her 
name.  He  used  to  say  they  called  her  Kirsty," 
exclaimed  the  sick  woman,  eagerly. 

Kenneth  had  been  mending  a  fire  which 
he  had  kindled  between  two  of  the  loose 
stones.  As  he  got  up  from  his  knees  to  lis- 
ten, a  ray  of  hope  flitted  across  his  pale,  anxious 
face. 

"  Oh,  we  know  Kirsty  perfectly  well ! " 
burst  in  Blanche,  glad  to  be  able  to  say  some- 
thing pleasant.  "  Morag  and  I  go  to  see  her 


172  MO  RAG. 

almost  every  day.  She  is  such  a  nice  old 
woman,  and  lives  in  such  a  pretty  cottage  ! " 

"  Do  you  think  you  could  bring  her  here  to 
see  me?''  said  the  sick  woman,  entreatingly. 
4"  I  do  so  want  to  see  her  once  before  I  die." 

Morag  glanced  doubtfully  at  Blanche.  "  It's 
no  jist  terrible  far  frae  here  til  Kirsty's  cottage ; 
but  she  hasna  been  weel,  and  it's  a  lang  road 
for  her  to  come,  I'm  thinkin'.  But  1  wouldna 
be  long  o'  runnin'  to  see." 

"  God  be  thanked.  He  has  granted  me  the 
desire  of  my  heart,"  said  the  dying  woman, 
clasping  her  hands.  "  The  Lord  reward  you, 
child.  Tell  Christian  Macpherson  that  her 
Kenneth's  wife  is  lying  dying  here,  and  wants 
to  see  her — to  come  soon — soon,"  and  she  sank 
back,  exhausted  with  the  effort  of  speaking. 

"We  had  better  start  at  once,  Morag," 
whispered  Blanche,  eagerly.  "  I  do  hope  Kirsty 
will  be  able  to  come.  It  is  certainly  very  far 
for  her  to  walk.  Never  mind  me,  Morag,"  she 
added,  seeing  her  friend  look  perplexed  as  to 
the  best  course  of  action.  "  Of  course  I  shall 
be  hopelessly  late ;  but  I'll  tell  papa  all  about 
it,  and  I'm  sure  he  won't  be  angry.  He  will 
have  come  from  the  moors,  I  daresay,  by  the 
time  we  get  home." 

"  I'm  so  thirsty ;  do  you  think  you  could 


THE  GYPSIES  A  T  LAST.  1Y3 


find  me  some  water  ?  It  might  keep  me  up  till 
she  comes/'  said  the  woman,  turning  wearily 
to  Morag. 

And  then  a  new  difficulty  arose ;  for  the 
nearest  spring  was  quite  half-way  to  Kirsty's 
cottage,  and  Morag  foresaw  that  there  could  not 
possibly  be  time  before  dark  to  fetch  the  sup- 
ply of  water,  and  bring  Kirsty  too ;  and  Ken- 
neth could  not  go,  for  the  poor  woman  was 
evidently  too  ill  to  be  left  alone. 

"  I'll  tell  you  what  we  must  do,"  said 
Blanche,  quickly  perceiving  the  difficulty.  "  I 
can't  go  to  Kirsty's,  because  I  shouldn't  know 
the  way  through  the  wood,  you  see !  But  I 
can  stay  with  your  mother,"  continued  Blanche, 
turning  to  Kenneth,  and  trying  hard  to  look  as 
if  she  were  making  an  ordinary  arrangement, 
she  added ;  "  and  you  can  go  with  Morag  and 
fetch  the  water,  while  she  goes  on  to  the  cot- 
tage." 

It  was  certainly  a  great  effort  for  Blanche 
to  make  this  proposal,  but  she  was  very  anxious 
to  be  brave  and  helpful  in  the  midst  of  this 
sad  scene,  and  she  insisted  on  -its  being  carried 
out,  though  Morag  felt  very  doubtful  as  to  the 
propriety  of  leaving  her  bonnie  wee  leddy  all 
alone  there.  Still  there  seemed  no  help  for  it, 
so  she  consented  at  last,  and  was  soon  hurry- 


174  MORAG. 

ing  towards  the  spring  with  Kenneth.  They 
walked  along  the  narrow  path  through  the 
forest  for  a  long  time  without  breaking  the 
silence.  At  last  Kenneth  said  in  a  stammer- 
ing tone,  "You've  been  very  kind  to  us, 
strangers;  I'll  never  forget  it,  and  I'm  sure 
mother  won't.  I  think  she'll  be  all  right  again 
when  she  has  seen  grandmother.  She  has  been 
fretting  so  about  finding  her." 

"  Is  Kirsty  Macpherson  your  grandmother  ? " 
said  Morag  in  a  surprised  tone,  raising  her 
downcast  eyes,  and  looking  at  Kenneth.  "  She 
never  telt  me  about  ye,"  she  added,  musingly. 

They  had  now  reached  the  spring,  and  Ken- 
neth having  quickly  filled  his  pitcher,  and 
looking  gratefully  at  Morag,  turned  to  retrace 
his  steps  in  the  direction  of  the  tent. 

The  little  girl  ran  on  eagerly,  more  anxious 
than  ever  to  fulfil  her  mission.  Emerging 
from  the  forest  at  last,  she  crossed  a  small  hil- 
lock, and  came  down  at  the  back  of  Kirsty 's 
cottage.  She  found  the  old  woman  seated  at 
the  door,  knitting  busily,  as  she  watched  the 
sunset.  The  amber  clouds  were  beginning  to 
gather  round  the  dying  sun,  and  Kirsty  sat 
.watching  the  cloudland  scene  with  a  far-away 
look  in  her  tranquil  gray  eyes. 

but  is  this   you,  my  dawtie  ?     I'm 


THE  GYPSIES  A  T  LAST.  175 


richt  glad  to  see  ye.  I  some  thoeht  ye  might 
be  the  nicht ;  but  how  cam'  ye  roun'  by  the 
back  o'  the  hoose?"  asked  Kirsty,  smiling  as 
she  welcomed  her  little  friend,  when  she  ap- 
peared round  the  gable  of  the  cottage. 

Instead  of  answering  her  question,  Morag 
asked,  hurriedly,  "  Kirsty,  will  ye  be  fit  for  a 
good  bit  o'  a  walk  the  nicht,  think  ye  ? " 

"  "Weel,  bairn,  I  wouldna  min'  a  bittie,  in 
this  bonnie  gloarnin' ;  but  I'll  no  say  I'll  gang 
sae  fast  or  sae  far  as  I  ance  could  hae  done," 
replied   the   old   woman,   smiling   at   MoragV 
breathless  eagerness. 

"  D'ye  think  ye  could  gang  as  far  as  the 
other  end  o'  the  fir-wood,  Kirsty  ? " 

"  Na,  bairn  ;  but  I'm  thinkin'  ye're  makin' 
a  fule  o'  me  the  nicht.  Ye  ken  brawly  I  hinna 
gaen  that  length  this  mony  a  day,"  said  Kirsty, 
looking  up  with  a  shade  of  irritation  in  her 
calm  face  at  the  thoughtlessness  of  her  usually 
considerate  little  friend. 

"  Weel,  Kirsty,  I'm  thinkin'  ye'll  need  to 
try  it  the  nicht.  There's  somebody  lyin'  there 
that's  terrible  anxious  to  see  ye."  Morag's 
voice  trembled,  as  she  continued,  "I've  a  mes- 
sage for  ye,  Kirsty.  Your  ain  lost  Kenneth's 
wife  is  lyin'  i'  the  firwood,  and  wants  to  see  ye 
afore  she  dees !" 


176  MORAG. 

For  a  moment  Kirsty  looked  bewildered ; 
but  there'  was  no  mistaking  the  slowly  spo- 
ken words  of  the  message.  Presently  she  held 
out  her  hand  to  Morag  to  help  her  from  her 
low  seat,  with  a  sigh ;  and,  leaning  against  the 
door,  she  stood  thinking.  Her  usually  calm 
eyes  looked  hungrily  at  the  little  .messenger, 
and  her  voice  sounded  faint  and  hollow  as  she 
asked,  "  Is  he  there  himsel  ?  "  And  then  she 
added,  shaking  her  head,  mournfully,  "  Na,  it 
couldna  be ;  he  would  hae  come  til  his  mither 
surely." 

"  There  is  a  Kenneth,  but  I'm  thinkiri'  he's 
no  yer  ain,  Kirsty,"  replied  Morag,  with  a 
pitying  glance  at  the  poor  mother's  yearning 
face. 

"  Tak'  me  til  her,  Morag.  Kenneth's  wife ! 
— she's  dyin'  i'  the  fir-wood !  The  Lord  grant 
me  the  strength  to  gang."  And  the  old  wom- 
an laid  her  trembling  hand  on  the  little  girl's 
shoulder  as  she  moved  to  go. 

Yery  soon  they  were  toiling  across  the  hil- 
lock together,  and  not  till  they  were  far  into 
the  forest  was  the  silence  broken. 

Meanwhile,  Blanche  had  seated  herself  on 
the  grey  dyke,  and  was  keeping  watch  beside 
the  sick  woman.  It  was  a  strange  vigil  to 
keep,  alone  in  the  darkening  fir-wood,  beside 


THE  GYPSIES  A  T  LAST.  177 


this  tossing,  wild-eyed,  dying  woman ;  but, 
somehow,  Blanche  did  not  feel  frightened  in 
the  least  degree.  Since  she  had  taken  her 
post,  it  began  to  seem  the  most  natural  thing 
in  the  world  that  she  should  be  there.  The 
sick  woman  took  no  notice  of  the  little  girl  for 
some  time,  and,  indeed,  seemed  hardly  aware 
of  her  presence,  till,  turning  round  suddenly, 
she  saw  her  seated  there,  her  fair  curls  gleam- 
ing in  the  half  darkness.  She  looked  at  her 
restlessly  for  a  little,  and  said  presently,  "  How 
came  you  here,  my  pretty  dear.  You're  surely 
far  from  home.  Will  your  mamma  not  be  get- 
ting anxious  about  you  ?  It  seems  so  dark  in 
that  wood." 

"  I  haven't  got  a  mamma,"  replied  Blanche, 
vivaciously.  "  Miss  Prosser  will  be  cross,  I 
daresay;  but  I  don't  think  she'll  mind  when 
I  explain.  I'm  sure  Morag  won't  be  longer 
than  she  can  help  in  bringing  in  Kirsty," 
added  Blanche  in  a  comforting  tone,  for  she 
noticed  that  the  weary  eyes  wandered  restlessly 
toward  the  entrance  of  the  tent. 

Presently  a  terrible  fit  of  a  breathlessness 
came  on,  and  the  poor  woman  sank  back  ex- 
hausted on  her  hard  stone  pillow  when  it  was 
over.  Blanche  gazed  pityingly  at  the  sufferer, 
and  longed  for  the  morrow,  when  she  meant 
12 


178  MORAG. 

to  return  with  various  needful  comforts.  She 
had  made  up  her  mind  to  enlist  Mrs.  Worthy's 
sympathy,  believing  her  to  be  more  amiable 
than  Ellis. 

Meanwhile,  she  took  off  her  soft  jacket,  and 
folding  it,  she  slipped  it  under  the  poor  rest- 
less head  on  the  hard  stone.  The  sick  woman 
noticed  the  pleasant  change,  and  smiled  grate 
fully.  And  as  Blanche  looked  at  her,  she 
thought  how  pretty  she  must  once  have  been, 
before  the  cheeks  had  got  so  hollow,  and  the 
eyes  so  sunken. 

It  was  beginning  to  get  very  dark  within 
the  tent,  and  Blanche  was  not  sorry  to  see 
Kenneth  make  his  appearance  with  his  pitcher 
filled  with  clear  water  from  the  spring.  The 
sick  woman  seemed  greatly  refreshed  by  the 
draught,  which  she  drank  eagerly.  But  pres- 
ently, she  began  to  get  very  restless,  and  kept 
moaning,  "  Kenny  !  Kenny  !  are  they  not  with- 
in sight  yet  ?  It's  so  long  since  that  little  girl 
went  away." 

At  last,  after  Kenneth  had  drawn  aside  the 
tartan  folds  several  times,  he  brought  back  the 
news  that  the  little  girl  and  an  old  bent  woman 
were  corning  through  the  trees. 

"  Oh,  it's  all  right ! — Kirsty  and  Morag — 
here  they  come ! "  cried  Blanche,  joyfully,  as 


THE  GYPSIES  AT  LAST.  179 

she  sprung  out  to  meet  them,  saying  eagerly 
to  Kirsty,  "  Do  come  quickly  ;  she's  so  very 
anxious  to  see  you,  Kirsty  !  " 

The  old  woman  made  no  reply,  but  walked 
silently  towards  the  tent,  looking  intently  at 
Kenneth,  who  stood  in  front  of  ;t.  "  My  ain 
Kenneth's  bairn,"  she  murmured,  as  she  laid 
her  trembling  hand  on  his  head.  Morag  heard 
him  say,  "  Grandmother,  we've  found  you  at 
last !  Mother  will  be  so  glad  !  "  and  he  led 
her  to  where  the  dying  woman  lay,  and  the 
tartan  folds  shut  them  out  from  sight. 

In  the  meantime,  two  figures  might  be  seen 
wandering  through  the  forest,  searching  hither 
and  thither  in  all  directions.  They  were  Ellis 
and  the  keeper,  who  had  started  in  company  to 
look  for  the  missing  girls.  Blanche's  maid  was 
in  a  state  of  high  nervous  agitation  concerning 
her  little  mistress.  She  had  been  consigning 
her  to  various  imaginary  harrowing  fates  since 
she  left  the  castle  in  search  of  her,  but  the 
keeper  had  smiled  his  grim  smile,  and  assured 
her  that  girls  were  like  kittens,  and  had  nine 
lives.  Nevertheless,  he  too  began  to  feel  rather 
anxious  about  them,  after  he  had  reluctantly 
led  the  way  to  Kirsty's  cottage,  where  he  ex- 
pected to  find  them  safely  housed ;  but,  to  his 
surprise,  they  found  it  quite  tenantless.  Ellis 


180  MORAG. 

began  to  wring  her  hands  in  despair  when  she 
detected  a  shade  of  anxiety  on  the  keeper's 
face,  after  the  neighborhood  of  the  cottage  had 
been  searched  without  any  result.  Then  Ding- 
wall  decided  that  the  fir-wood  must  be  thor- 
oughly explored,  for  he  knew  that  it  was  one 
of  Morag's  favorite  haunts.  They  wandered 
on,  searching  everywhere,  till  at  last  the  keep- 
er's keen  eye  discovered,  through  the  fir-trees, 
the  dark  tent  resting  against  the  old  dyke, 
with  its  back-ground  of  pale  larches.  He  began 
to  feel  rather  uneasy,  and  to  wish  that  he  had 
brought  some  defensive  weapon  with  him,  for 
there  was  no  trace  of  the  girls,  and  it  was  more 
than  likely  they  had  been  picked  up  by  the 
gypsies,  and  sharp  measures  might  be  neces- 
sary for  their  recovery.  He  did  not,  how- 
ever, confide  his  fears  to  Ellis,  but  went  for- 
ward to  take  a  nearer  inspection  of  the  encamp- 
ment. 

Meanwhile,  the  little  girls  were  hovering 
about  the  tent,  wondering  what  would  happen 
next.  Morag  had  quite  made  up  her  mind  that 
the  wee  leddy  must  instantly  be  conducted 
homewards,  and  was  relieved  to  find  that  she 
was  not  unwilling  to  go — the  reason  being  that 
Blanche  was  full  of  hospitable  ideas  concerning 
the  dwellers  under  the  tartan,  and  she  felt  im- 


THE  G YPSIES  AT  LAST.  181 


patient  to  get  home  again  to  enlist  all  the  sym- 
pathy possible  in  their  favor. 

Morag,  before  starting  for  the  castle,  had 
gone  to  reconnoitre  a  little  round  the  tent,  to 
try  to  find  an  opportunity  of  whispering  to 
Kirsty  that  she  would  return  presently,  pro- 
vided her  father  would  allow  her.  Just  at  that 
moment,  Blanche  spied  Ellis  and  the  keeper 
hovering  about  among  the  trees,  and  ran  for- 
ward to  meet  them. 

Ellis's  anxiety  immediately  changed  to  indig- 
nation when  she  perceived  that  her  little  mis- 
tress was  safe  and  sound,  and  she  was  about  to 
break  forth  in  angry  words  of  remonstrance 
when  Blanche  held  up  a  warning  finger  and 
pointed  to  the  tent,  which  the  little  fire  within 
was  making  more  visible  in  the  darkness. 

"  Gypsies,  I  declare ! "  shrieked  Ellis. 
"  You've  been  kidnapped.  "We're  just  in  time 
to  save  her  !  "  she  added,  wringing  her  hands, 
and  turning  to  the  keeper,  who  in  his  turn 
began  to  feel  a  shade  of  anxiety  regarding  his 
Morag,  as  she  was  nowhere  visible. 

"  Hush,  Ellis ;  they  aren't  gypsies  a  bit. 
There  is  a  very  sick  woman  ly ing  there — dying, 
she  says,  but  I  hope  she  isn't  quite  that.  They 
are  strangers,  and  have  come  a  long  way." 

"  Didn't  I   tell  you  ?     They   always  come 


182  MO  RAG. 

from  the  hends  of  the  earth.  Gypsies,  as  sure's 
my  name's  Ellis.  Are  you  kidnapped,  missie — 
tell  me  now  ? "  But  Blanche  appeared  still  in 
possession  of  a  wonderful  amount  of  freedom, 
and  glanced  with  an  amused  smile  at  the  keeper 
as  she  listened  to  her  maid's  suggestions.  So 
Ellis  continued,  in  an  angry  tone — 

"  What  have  you  ever  been  about  so  long, 
missie?  Miss  Prosser's  well-nigh  into  a  tit 
about  you,  and  Mrs.  Worthy  says  she  can't  sit 
two  minutes  in  one  place  for  anxiety.  And 
there's  cook,  as  declares  she  has  miscooked  mas- 
ter's dinner  for  the  first  time  in  her  life — all  on 
account  of  her  hagitation  concernin'  you."  And 
Ellis  went  on  to  give  a  chronicle  of  the  various 
distracted  feelings  of  each  separate  member  of 
the  household. 

"Has  papa  come  home,  then?  and  what 
did  he  say  about  my  being  so  late  ?  "  interposed 
Blanche  at  last. 

"Oh,  well,  you  see  the  master  is  a  quiet 
gentleman,  and  never  does  make  much  ado," 
replied  Ellis,  rather  crestfallen  that  she  had 
nothing  sensational  to  narrate  from  that  quarter. 
"But  he  said  we  would  be  sure  to  find  you 
at  that  old  woman  what's-her-name's  cottage, 

O      7 

where  you're  so  fond  of  going  to  ;  and  you  see 
we  didn't.  Really,  missie,  it's  too  bad!  I'm 


THE  GYPSIES  A  T  LAST.  183 


near  wore  off  my  feet  between  the  fear  and  the 
draggin'  after  you.  I  only  hope  you  won't  be 
let  go  out  at  the  door  again  without  Miss  Pros- 
ser — that's  all  I've  got  to  say." 

Blanche  hoped  it  was,  but  she  feared  not. 
She  had  a  painful  consciousness  that  she  was 
jacketless,  and  felt  certain  that,  sooner  or  later, 
that  fact  would  be  discovered  and  inquired  in- 
to. 

Meanwhile,  Morag  joined  them,  not  having 
been  able  to  get  a  word  with  Kirsty,  though 
she  could  hear  her  voice  mingle  soothingly  with 
the  eager,  gasping  tones  of  the  dying  woman, 
who  appeared  to  have  a  great  deal  to  say  to 
this  long-sought  friend.  Morag  seemed  to  feel 
more  relief  than  alarm  at  the  sight  of  Ellis  in 
possession  of  her  little  charge.  But  when  she 
discovered  her  father's  tall  form  leaning  against 
one  of  her  pillars  of  fir,  she  started,  and  looked 
nervously  towards  the  tent.  The  keeper  ac- 
costed her  rather  sternly,  saying,  "  I  wonder  at 
ye,  Morag.  I  thocht  ye  had  mair  wit — takin' 
up  wi'  a  set  o'  tinkers,  and  bidin'  oot  so  lang, 
forby." 

Morag  did  not  venture  to  explain  the  cause 
of  their  delay,  nor  did  she  mention  that  Kirsty 
Macpherson  was_  so  near  at  hand.  She  ob- 
served that,  though  her  father  seemed  quite 


184  MORAG. 

willing  now  that  she  should  go  to  see  the  old 
woman,  yet  he  evidently  wished  to  avoid  meet- 
ing her ;  and  Morag  felt  sure  that  to  disclose 
the  fact  that  Kirsty  was  one  of  the  alleged  tink- 
ers within  the  tartan  folds,  would  not  help  to 
smooth  matters. 

"Missie!  wherever  is  your  jacket? — well, 
I  never ! "  screamed  the  maid,  with  uplifted 
hands,  when,  for  the  first  time,  she  observed 
the  absence  of  that  garment. 

"My  jacket?  Oh,  never  mind,  Ellis;  it 
isn't  cold,"  replied  Blanche,  looking  rather  un- 
easy, but  attempting  to  assume  a  careless  tone. 

"  Never  mind !  Did  I  ever  know  the  like  I 
Where's  your  jacket,  missie  ?  I  insist  on  know- 
ing ! "  screeched  the  excited  Ellis.  "  Stolen  by 
them  vagrants  you've  been  a-takin'  up  with, 
I'll  be  bound,"  and  the  maid  looked  at  the 
keeper,  as  if  she  thought  he  ought  to  take  im- 
mediate steps  towards  the  recovery  of  the  sto- 
len property. 

Morag  glanced  anxiously  at  Blanche.  She 
did  not  know  what  had  become  of  the  missing 
jacket,  and  she  began  to  wonder  whether  it 
could  have  been  dropped  in  their  flight  from 
the  supposed  dangerous  gypsy.  She  was  about 
to  suggest  that  she  might  go  to  look  for  it, 
when  the  indignant  Ellis  continued — 


THE  GYPSIES  AT  LAST.  185 


"  "Well,  keeper,  what  is  to  be  done  ?  You 
see  Miss  Blanche  doesn't  even  deny  that 
they've  stolen  her  jacket — her  beautiful  ermine 
one,  too.  I  gave  it  her  on  because  she  sneezed 
this  morning.  Pity  there  isn't  a  policeman  to 
set  at  them,"  snorted  Ellis,  in  great  wrath,  as 
she  glanced  at  the  keeper,  who  stood  stolid  and 
immovable,  looking  at  Blanche. 

The  little  lady  began  to  feel  at  bay,  and, 
being  again  challenged  by  her  maid  to  tell 
what  had  become  of  the  missing  garment,  she 
planted  herself  against  a  fir-tree,  and  flinging 
back  her  curls,  she  folded  her  arms,  saying  in  a 
dramatic  tone — 

"Now,  Ellis,  listen!  I'd  rather  suffer  all 
the  tortures  we  read  of  yesterday  at  Kirsty's,  in 
Foxe's  Book  of  Martyrs,  than  tell  you  where 
that  jacket  is ! " 

Morag  had  been  about  to  expostulate  with 
the  wee  leddy ;  but  now  she  felt  much  too 
awed  to  utter  a  word.  As  she  stood  gazing  at 
her,  the  fir-tree  was  immediately  transformed 
in  her  imagination  to  a  stake,  and  visions  of 
lighted  faggots  and  rising  flames  coursed 
through  her  brain.  Ellis,  too,  seemed  rather 
impressed,  and  Blanche  took  advantage  of  her 
position  to  remark  in- her  most  imperious  tone, 
as  she  quitted  her  dramatic  pose,  "  Now,  Ellis, 


186  MORAG. 

if  you  say  another  word  about  tha.t  jacket,  I 
shan't  go  home  with  you  a  step.  Perhaps  to- 
morrow I  may  tell  you  what  has  become  of  it," 
she  added,  bending  her  head  graciously,  as  she 
volunteered  to  start  for  home  under  these  con- 
ditions. 

At  this  juncture,  Kirsty  suddenly  emerged 
from  the  tartan  folds.  She  had  been  reminded 
that  the  little  girls  still  waited  by  hearing  the 
sound  of  voices,  and  she  came  now  to  urge 
them  to  return  home  at  once. 

The  moon  was  now  giving  a  clear,  plentiful 
light.  It  shone  on  Kirsty's  placid  face,  and 
showed  her  another  face  which  she  had  not 
looked  on  for  many  a  year,  and  it  seemed 
strange  that  she  should  see  it  to-night.  The 
keeper  looked  as  much  startled  as  if  he  had 
seen  a  ghost,  when  the  old  woman  moved 
slowly  towards  him,  and  holding  out  her  hand, 
said,  solemnly,  "  Alaster  Dingwall,  is  that 
you  ? "  and  still  holding  his  hand,  she  added, 
'•  Weel  do  I  min'  the  nicht  I  saw  ye  last.  But 
come  ben,  and  hear  o'  the  goodness  o'  the  Lord 
frae  this  dyin'  woman.  Eh  !  but  He's  slow  to 
anger,  and  plenteous  in  mercy.  The  soul  o' 
my  lang-lost  Kenneth  is  safe  wi'  Himsel'.  He 
has  granted  me  the  desire  o'  my  hert.  Com. 
ben,  and  see  Kenneth's  wife  !  " 


THE  GYPSIES  AT  LAST.  187 


Dingwall's  usually  inflexible  face  showed 
traces  of  strong  emotion  as  he  listened  to  Kirsty. 
He  made  no  reply,  but  was  about  to  follow  her 
into  the  tent,  when  Ellis,  more  mystified  than 
ever  by  these  strange  dealings  with  these  dis- 
reputable gypsies,  who  had  already  given  her  so 
much  trouble  that  afternoon,  shouted  in  angry 
tones,  "  Well,  keeper,  if  you're  going  to  stay  in 
this  wood  longer,  I'm  not.  Come  along,  missie, 
we  must  find  our  own  way  as  best  we  can." 
And  without  waiting  for  a  reply,  the  indignant 
maid  hurried  off  with  her  reluctant  charge. 

Morag  stood  watching  her  father,  as  he  fol- 
lowed Kirsty,  bending  his  tall  figure  to  creep 
into  the  low  tent,  and  then  she  sat  down  on  the 
old  grey  dyke  outside,  to  await  the  next  scene 
of  this  strange  evening.  She  could  not  help 
feeling  very  glad  that  her  father  and  Kirsty 
were  going  to  be  friends  at  last,  though  it  was 
such  a  sorrowful  occasion  which  seemed  to  have 
brought  the  reconciliation  about.  Presently 
she  saw  Kenneth  slip  out  of  the  tent,  looking 
very  grave  and  sad.  He  came  and  leant  si- 
lently against  one  of  the  fir-trees,  and  stood 
gazing  into  the  pale  larch  plantation,  with  its 
long  dark  grass  shimmering  in  the  white  moon- 
light. Morag  knew  that  he  was  looking  so  sor- 
rowful because  his  mother  was  going  to  leave 


188  MO  RAG. 

him,  and  she  felt  very  sorry  too,  and  longed 
to  be  able  to  do  something  to  comfort  him  ; 
but  she  thought  that  perhaps  it  was  best  to 
keep  quite  quiet  there,  and  let  him  think  his 
own  thoughts.  She  wondered  whether  Ken- 
neth knew  and  loved  his  grandmother's  Friend, 
and  was  able  now  to  tell  Him  all  his  trouble. 

When  the  keeper  entered  the  tent,  the  dy- 
ing woman  fixed  her  great  restless  eyes  upon 
him,  and  looked  questioningly  at  Kirsty.  The 
old  woman  stooped  down,  and  said,  "  It's  Alas- 
ter  Dingwall — him,  ye  ken,  that  was  Ken- 
neth's"— friend,  she  was  going  to  say ;  and 
then  she  glanced  sadly  at  the  keeper,  and  did 
not  finish  her  sentence.  But  presently  she  ad- 
ded, u  Eh  !  but  He's  been  good  and  forgien  us 
muckle,  and  we  maun  be  willin'  to  forgie,"  and 
taking  the  thin,  white  fingers,  she  laid  them  in 
the  keeper's  broad,  brown  palm. 

"  Yes,  yes,"  gasped  the  woman  ;  "  I  remem- 
ber the  name.  My  husband  said  something 
about  him  when  he  was  dying,  too  ;  but  I  can't 
recollect  now."  Her  memories  of  the  troubled 
past  were  growing  dim  in  the  haze  of  death. 

"  My  boy,  where  is  he  ? "  she  asked,  pres- 
ently, turning  to  Kirsty.  "  I've  brought  him 
to  you — you'll  love  him  for  your  own  Ken- 
neth's sake,  won't  you  ?  He's  a  good  boy ;  it's 


THE  GYPSIES  AT  LAST.  189 


hard  to  leave  him  in  this  wicked  world  alone  ; 
but  you  will  look  to  him,  won't  you  't "  and  she 
looked  beseechingly  at  Kirsty.  "  We've  trav- 
elled many  a  weary  mile  to  reach  you — he'll 
tell  you  all  about  it  after.  But  it's  all  over 
now — all  past,  and  the  rest  is  coming,"  she 
murmured,  and  then  she  lay  quite  still  for 
a  few  minutes,  and  her  lips  moved  as  if  in 
prayer. 

Presently  she  seemed  to  remember  some- 
thing, and,  putting  her  hand  into  her  breast, 
she  drew  out  a  little  bag  with  one  or  two  gold 
pieces  in  it.  Handing  it  to  Kirsty,  she  said, 
"  It's  all  there  is  left — he's  very  ragged  I'm 
afraid,  and  I'll  be  to  bury.  But  you  are  good 
and  kind,  he  always  said,  and  you'll  be  kind  to 
my  boy,  for  Christ's  sake,  and  for  your  own 
Kenneth's,  grandmother,  won't  you  ?  I  haven't 
remembered  all  his  messages,  I'm  so  tired  to- 
night. He  wanted  your  forgiveness  so  much — 
but  you'll  see  him  again — we'll  both  be  wait- 
ing you  and  Kenny  !  " 

"  Eh  !  my  bairn ;  but  ye  mauna  forget  that 
a  sicht  o'  Christ's  ain  face  will  be  better  than 
a'  the  lave,"  said  the  old  woman  earnestly,  as 
she  wiped  the  cold  damps  of  death  from  the 
white  forehead. 

"  It's  so  cold,  and  gets  so  very  dark,"  she 


190  MORAG. 

moaned  restlessly.  "There  was  a  candle  left 
in  the  basket,  I  think;  why  doesn't  Kenny 
light  it  \  Where  is  he  ?  why  does  he  go 
away  ? " 

The  candle  was  already  burning  near  its 
socket,  and  Kirsty  saw  that  the  haze  of  death 
was  fast  dimming  the  eyes  that  would  see  no 
more  till  they  awoke  in  that  city  "  where  they 
need  no  candle,  neither  light  of  the  sun,  for 
the  glory  of  God  doth  lighten  it;  and  there 
shall  be  no  night  there." 

The  old  woman  went  to  call  Kenneth,  who 
was  still  leaning  silently  against  the  fir-tree. 
"  Come  ben  to  yer  mither,  my  laddie !  Ye 
winna  hae  lang  to  bide  wi'  her  noo,  I'm  think- 
in'."  And  the  boy  came  and  knelt  beside  his 
mother.  The  keeper  had  been  standing  with 
folded  arms,  looking  silently  on,  but  now  he 
crept  away,  and  sitting  down  in  a  corner  of  the 
tent,  he  covered  his  face  with  his  hands.  The 
sins  of  his  youth  came  crowding  to  his  mem- 
ory ;  one  dark  spot  stood  out  in  terrible  relief, 
and  made  him  cower  with-  shame  and  remorse 
in  the  presence  of  this  boy,  and  his  mother  on 
her  lowly  dying  bed. 

Meanwhile,  Kirsty  went  out  to  look  for 
Morag,  whom  she  had  not  forgotten.  Seeing 
her  seated  on  the  old  dyke,  she  beckoned  to 


THE  G YPSIES  AT  LAST.  191 


her,  saying,  "  Come  awa,  dawtie,  dinna  bide 
there  yer  lane !  Puir  thing,  she  winna  be  lang 
here,  noo.  It's  a  sair  sicht  for  a  young  hert, 
but  come  ben,  Morag.  'Deed  they're  best  aff 
that's  nearest  their  journey's  end,"  murmured 
the  old  woman,  as  she  stepped  under  the  tar- 
tan folds  a^ain. 

o 

Morag  followed,  and  stood  gazing,  sorrow- 
fully at  the  dying  woman.  She  had  been  lying 
quietly  for  several  minutes,  but  presently  she 
looked  wildly  round,  and,  stretching  out  her 
arms,  she  cried,  "  Kenny,  Kenny,  lift  me  up !  " 

Kirsty  stepped  forward,  and  raised  the 
weary  head  on  her  arm,  saying,  in  her  low, 
firm  tones,  "  Dinna  be  feert,  my  bairn.  The 
valley  is  dark  eneuch,  but '  there's  licht  on  the 
tither  side.  Jist  ye  hand  His  han'  siccar,  and 
ye'll  see  His  face  gin  lang."  For  a  few  mo- 
ments sho  lay  peacefully,  with  her  hand  rest- 
ing on  Kirsty's  breast,  but  presently  a  great 
spasm  of  agony  crossed  the  wasted  face,  some 
lingering  breaths  were  drawn,  and  the  poor, 
quivering  frame  lay  at  rest. 

Neither  of  the  children  knew  that  it  was 
death.  After  a  long  silence  Kenneth  rose  from 
his  knees,  and  whispered  to  Kirsty — "  She's 
gone  to  sleep ;  we  must  not  wake  her  for  a 
while — it's  so  long  since  she  slept  before." 


192  MORAG. 

"  Ay,  ay,  my  laddie,"  replied  Kirsty,  shak- 
ing her  head,  mournfully  ;  "  she's  gane  to  sleep, 
til  her  lang,  lang  sleep.  Nae  soun'  o'  ours  will 
waken  her  noo ;  it  will  be  His  ain  blessed  voice 
i'  the  Day  that's  cotnin'." 

Poor  Kenneth  understood  now.  With  a 
low  cry  of  agony,  he  knelt  beside  the  body, 
which  Kirsty  had  laid  tenderly  on  its  lowly  bed 
among  the  brown  fir-needles  again.  And  as 
she  did  so,  Morag  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  wee 
leddy's  missing  jacket ;  she  understood  now 
why  she  was  so  vehemently  unwilling  that  it 
should  be  searched  for. 

The  keeper  had  been  a  silent  spectator  of 
the  sad  scene.  At  last  he  turned  to  Kirsty, 
and  brushing  a  tear  from  his  eye,  he  said,  in 
a  husky  voice — "  Kirsty,  woman,  I've  whiles 
afore  rued  yon  dark  nicht's  work  sore  eneuch, 
and  all  that  came  o 't,  but  I  niver  rued  it  sae 
muckle  as  I  do  the  nicht." 

"  Dinna  say  nae  mair,  Alaster  Dingwall," 
replied  Kirsty,  holding  out  her  hand.  "  I'll  no 
say  that  it  wasna  sair  upo'  me  for  mony  a  day, 
but  I  see  it  a'  the  nicht.  Ye  were  jist  the  in- 
strument in  His  hands  for  sendin'  the  puir 
prodigal  safe  hame  til  the  Father's  hoose. 
Will  you  no  come  intilt  yersel',  man?  The  far 
countrie  o'  sin  is  an  unca  lonesome  place,  Alas- 


THE  GYPSIES  A  T  LAST.  195 


ter  Dingwall,"  and  Kirsty  laid  her  hand  on  his 
arm,  and  looked  earnestly  into  his  face. 

"  It's  no  easy  wark  for  an  auld  sinner  like 
me,  Kirsty  ;  but,  I'll  try,"  Dingwall  replied,  as 
he  glanced  kindly  and  pityingly  at  the  orphan 
boy,  and  lifted  him  from  his  dead  mother's  side. 

"  Noo,  keeper,  ye  and  Morag  manna  bide  a 
minute  longer.  The  puir  lassie  maun  be  deid 
tired,"  said  Kirsty,  rousing  herself  to  think 
what  must  be  done  -next.  "  I'se  watch  aside 
the  corp  ;  and  maybe,  when  the  morn's  come, 
ye'll  hae  the  kindness  to  speir  gin  the  wricht  i' 
the  village  will  come  ootby  here,  and  we'll  lay 
her  in  her  lang  hame,  and  the  puir  laddie  will 
come  hame  and  bide  wi'  me." 

The  keeper  would  not  hear  of  leaving  her, 
and  Morag  seated  herself  on  the  dyke,  saying 
quietly,  "  I  canna  be  goin'  home  and  leavin' 
Kirsty,  father." 

The  poor  boy  seemed  so  faint  from  grief 
and  fasting,  that  Dingwall  at  last  decided  to 
take  him  away  from  the  sorrowful  scene,  and 
to  leave  Morag,  who  determinately  clung  to 
her  old  friend. 

Kenneth  stood  gazing  mournfully  at  the 
silent  form,  murmuring,  "Mother,  mother!" 
in  a  low  monotone  of  agony.  He  would  not 
be  persuaded  to  quit  the  spot  till  Kirsty  un- 


194  MORAG. 

fastened  the  tartan  plaid  from  the  stakes,  and 
laying  it  reverently  on  the  body,  she  covered 
the  dead  face  out  of  sight.  And  as  she  un- 
wound the  plaid  from  its  fastenings,  she  re- 
membered with  a  sharp  pang  of  sorrow  the 
morning  on  which  she  had  last  seen  that  old 
plaid.  "While  the  keeper  and  Kenneth  are  wan- 
dering through  the  fir-wood  on  their  way  to 
the  shieling  among  the  crags,  and  the  old 
woman,  with  Morag  by  her  side,  keeps  her 
strange,  lonely  watch  beside  the  dead,'  we 
shall  explain  why  it  was  so  terrible  for  the 
keeper  to  remember,  and  so  difficult  for  Kirsty 
to  forget,  the  events  of  a  certain  night  long 
years  ago,  which  had  driven  the  older  Kenneth 
from  the  Glen  an  outlawed  man,  and  left  his 
mother  a  desolate,  childless  woman. 

Kirsty's  husband  had  been  the  village 
smith.  He  was  a  much-liked  and  respected 
inhabitant  of  the  little  hamlet.  He  was  sud- 
denly cut  off  by  fever  at  a  comparatively  early 
age,  leaving  his  wife  one  son,  who  was  hence- 
forth to  be  her  sole  earthly  hope'  and  care. 
The  smith  had  been  a  sober  and  diligent  man, 
and  Kirsty  was  a  frugal  housewife,  so  a  little 
money  was  saved,  and  the  widow  had  been 
able  to  move  to  the  pretty  cottage  in  the  Glen, 
which  had  been  her  home  ever  since. 


THE  G  YPSIES  AT  LA  ST.  ]  95 


Kirsty  had  one  earthly  ambition,  and  one 
which  she  shared  in  common  with  many  a 
Scotch  peasant — namely,  that  her  son  should 
become  a  scholar.  This  desire  seemed,  how- 
ever, to  meet  with  no  response  from  the  boy 
himself.  He  hated  books,  and  loved,  above 
all  things,  to  roam  about  the  Glen,  finding 
his  pleasure  there,  frequently,  when  he  should 
have  been  at  school  in  the  village.  Thither 
every  quarter-day  his  mother  duly  went,  full 
of  anxiety  to  hear  about  his  progress,  and 
with  the  school  fees  wrapt  in  a  corner  of 
her  pocket-handkerchief,  while  a  small  offering 
for  the  schoolmaster's  wife,  from  the  garden 
or  t^rn-yard,  was  never  forgotten.  But  she 
alwa^  returned  from  these  visits  crestfallen 
and  graved.  "  He  does  not  take  to  his  books, 
Mrs.  JMfkcpherson ;  I  fear  we'll  never  be  able 
to  mak§  a  scholar  of  him,"  the  parish  school- 
master would  say,  shaking  his  head,  and  add- 
ing, as  he  noticed  the  mother's  disappointed 
face,  "  He's  a  fine,  manly,  truthful  boy,  though  ; 
you'll  find  he  will  be  good  for  something 
yet." 

But  Kirsty  was  not  satisfied,  and  went  on 
praying  that  God  would  give  her  son  a  hear- 
ing ear  and  an  understanding  heart  in  things 
intellectual  and  spiritual.  And  so  the  years  of 


196  MORAG. 

boyhood  passed,  and  Kenneth  grew  np  a  great 
anxiety  to  his  widowed  mother.  Sometimes 
he  would  leave  home  for  whole  nights  and 
days  of  rambling  among  the  hills  with  other 
lads.  He  was  an  immense  favorite  among  his 
companions,  and  their  chosen  leader  in  every 
wild  exploit.  Bold  and  frank  and  fearless  he 
certainly  was,  and  possessed  much  of  seeming 
unselfishness,  but  it  was  a  quality  of  a  very 
different  kind  from  that  which  his  mother 
practised  at  home.  Nobody  could  wile  so 
many  trouts  from  the  river  as  Kenneth ;  and 
nobody  so  generously  shared  his  basketful 
among  his  comrades.  He  knew  every  foot  of 
the  Glen  by  heart,  every  lonely  pass,  each 
deceptive  bog.  He  had  set  his  heart  on  being 
a  gamekeeper,  but  his  mother  looked  upon  it 
as  an  idle  trade,  and  always  hoped  that  he 
might  yet  show  some  leaning  towards  another 
employment. 

Alaster  Dingwall  was  many  years  older  than 
Kenneth,  though  a  great  friendship  sprang  up 
between  the  two.  Dingwall  had  been  under- 
gamekeeper  at  some  distance  from  the  Glen, 
but  he  had  lost  his  situation,  and  returned  to 
lounge  about  the  village,  on  the  outlook  for 
work.  He  admired  the  bold,  reckless  young 
Kenneth,  and  the  boy  was  greatly  attracted  by 


THE  G YPSIES  AT  LAST.  197 


his  older  companion,  and  felt  flattered  by  his 
appreciation.  Kirsty  noticed  that  the  compan- 
ionship only  served  to  foster  Kenneth's  idle 
habits,  and  she  did  all  she  could  to  discourage 
it,  but  in  vain. 

One  Sunday  evening  Kenneth  had  been 
induced  to  stay  quietly  indoors,  and  sat  read- 
ing to  his  mother,  who  was  feeling  intensely 
happy  in  having  him  with  her.  But  presently 
she  heard  a  whistle  outside,  which  she  had 
learned  to  know  and  dread,  for  she  knew  that 
it  was  a  summons  for  her  boy  to  join  his  idle 
companions. 

"  That's  Dingwall's  whustle ;  I  ken  it  fine. 
Dinna  gang  out  til  him,  Kenny — bide  wi'  me 
the  nicht,  my  laddie.  He'll  no  want  ye  for 
ony  guid." 

But  the  warning,  "  My  son,  if  sinners  entice 
thee,  consent  thou  not,"  fell  unheeded  on  the 
foolish  Kenneth's  ear,  and  a  sorrowful  reaping- 
time  for  all  after-life  was  the  result  of  this  brief 
sowing-time  of  folly. 

"It's  only  for  a  bit  o'  a  walk,  mother. 
There's  no  ill,"  pleaded  Kenneth,  as  he  hur- 
riedly shut  the  book ;  and  taking  his  bonnet, 
he  prepared  to  go  out.  "I'll  no  be  long, 
mother,"  he  added,  as  he  went  out  whistling, 
and  Kirsty  could  hear  through  the  clear  frosty 
7' 


198  MO  RAG. 

air  his  merry  laugh  re-echoing  among  his 
companions,  and  stood  listening  to  it  at  the 
door  of  the  cottage  till  the  sound  died  away  in 
the  distance.  Then  the  mother  went  back  to 
the  empty  room,  and  prayed  for  her  son  till 
the  grey  morning  broke,  and  still  he  did  not 
return. 

At  last  she  crept  away  to  bed,  and  in  the 
morning  she  was  awakened  from  her  troubled 
slumbers  by  a  loud  knocking.  On  opening 
the  door,  she  saw  Kenneth  standing,  pale  and 
haggard,  with  blood-besmeared  clothes,  be- 
tween two  strange  men.  One  of  them  step- 
ped forward,  and  said  to  the  bewildered  Kirs- 

ty— 

"  Sorry  for  it,  missus ;  but  this  chap  must 
go  with  me.  Found  a  snare  set  in  the  larch 
plantation  yonder — all  but  caught  him  at  it,  in 
fact.  It's  not  the  first  offence,  I'm  thinking. 
There's  been  a  deal  of  poaching  lately  in  the 
neighborhood ;  but  we've  caught  the  thief  at 
last." 

"Mother,  I  didna  do  it !  I  never  set  the 
snare!  I  didna  even  ken  that  it  was  amang 
the  grass ! "  gasped  Kenneth,  looking  plead- 
ingly at  his  mother,  as  if  he  cared  more  that 
she  should  not  think  him  guilty  of  the  deed 
than  for  the  serious  consequences  which  seemed 


THE  GYPSIES  A  T  LAST.  199 


to  threaten  him,  whether  he  was  guilty  or  not. 
And  his  mother  looked  into  his  eyes  and  knew 
that  he  was  innocent,  as  indeed  he  was.  He 
had  been  simply  used  as  a  tool  by  his  false 
friend. 

Since  he  had  been  out  of  employment, 
Dingwall  had  gained  his  livelihood  by  poach- 
ing. But,  having  reason  to  suspect  at  last 
that  he  was  being  watched,  he  resolved  to  shift 
the  suspicions  on  Kenneth  by  enlisting  him 
in  the  service,  and  offering  him  a  share  of  the 
gains.  He  thought,  too,  that  if  the  offence 
were  discovered,  it  was  more  likely  to  be 
lightly  treated  if  the  offender  were  a  mere 
boy,  like  Kenneth,  so  he  resolved  on  that  even- 
ing to  divulge  the  plan  to  his  boy-friend,  who, 
as  yet,  was  entirely  ignorant  of  the  way  in 
which  Dingwall  gained  a  livelihood,  and  little 
guessed  on  what  mission  he  was  being  led  into 
the  larch  plantation. 

Kenneth  had  seated  himself  on  the  lichen- 
spotted  dyke  to  smoke,  while  the  more  cau- 
tious, because  guilty,  Dingwall  stood  darkly 
by,  having  slipped  his  pipe  into  his  pocket  long 
before  they  reached  the  wood.  He  was  pon- 
dering how  he  should  best  confide  his  secret 
to  Kenneth,  and  was  about  to  propose  that  he 
would  show  him  the  snare  which  he  had  set, 


200  MORAG. 

when  his  keen  eye  detected  traces  of  danger 
and  discovery.  He  immediately  crept  away 
in  base  silence  to  hide  himself,  and  presently 
his  innocent  boy-friend  was  seized  by  the  em- 
issaries of  the  law.  Then  Kenneth  understood 
that  he  had  been  betrayed ;  but  he  would  not 
betray  in  return.  He  simply  asserted  that  he 
had  not  set  the  snare,  and  knew  nothing  what- 
ever about  it. 

'•  Come,  come,  now ;  that's  all  very  fine — 
didn't  do  it,  forsooth.  Strange  place  for  a 
walk  on  a  winter  night — the  larch  plantation," 
said  the  man,  smiling  sneeringly  to  his  com- 
panion, as  he  listened  to  Kenneth  assuring  his 
mother  that  he  was  innocent,  while  they  stood 
at  the  cottage  door. 

"  Come  along  with  us.  In  the  meantime," 
he  continued,  as  he  laid  his  hand  on  Kenneth's 
arm  to  drag  him  away,  "  if  you're  able  to  prove 
that  you  didn't  do  it,  all  the  better  for  you,  my 
boy,  I  can  tell  you." 

Kenneth  turned  with  a  look  of  anguish  to 
his  mother,  who  stood  gazing  at  him  with  a  face 
of  marble.  She  asked  no  questions ;  it  was  no 
time  for  reproaches  then,  and,  somehow,  Ken- 
neth felt  that  she  understood  how  it  had  all 
happened,  she  looked  so  pitiful  and  so  loving. 
When  she  saw  that  the  men  were  really  going 


THE  GYPSIES  A  T  LAST.  201 


to  take  him  away,  she  went  and  prepared  him 
some  breakfast ;  but  Kenneth  said  he  could  not 
eat,  and  turning  to  the  men,  volunteered  to 
accompany  them  at  once.  He  looked  cold  and 
faint  in  that  chilly  November  morning:  and 
just  as  he  was  starting,  his  mother  brought  his 
father's  plaid,  and  wrapped  it  tenderly  round 
him,  but  she  did  not  utter  a  word. 

"  Come  now,  there  must  be  no  more  coddling 
of  this  bird,  old  lady !  Time's  valuable,  and 
there  isn't  a  minute  to  spare ! "  said  the  man 
roughly,  as  he  led  the  boy  away. 

When  Kenneth  had  got  beyond  the  garden 
gate,  and  was  being  hurried  along  the  highway 
by  his  jailer,  he  turned  and  looked  with  unut- 
terable agony  and  remorse  toward  his  mother, 
who  stood,  stricken  and  desolate,  at  the  door  of 
his  home,  which  was  to  be  blighted  during  so 
many  years  for  his  sake. 

A  few  weeks  afterwards  he  was  tried,  arid 
sentenced  to  a  short  term  of  imprisonment.  He 
had  pleaded  not  guilty  ;  but  could  not  explain 
how  he  came  to  be  in  the  larch  plantation  at 
such  an  hour,  and  declined  to  give  any  informa- 
tion concerning  the  real  offender. 

Kirsty  knew  him  to  be  none  other  than 
Alaster  Dingwall.  In  her  anguish  she  went  to 
him,  and  implored  that  he  would  not  sacrifice 


202  MO  RAG. 

the  innocent,  speaking  burning  words  from  the 
depths  of  her  broken  mother's  heart ;  but  she 
only  met  with  the  sneering  rejoinder  that  she 
would  find  some  difficulty  in  proving  that  he 
had  anything  to  do  with  the  matter. 

And  then  the  news  came  that  the  wretched 
boy  had  escaped  from  prison ;  and  from  that  day 
forward  Kirsty  heard  nothing  of  her  son.  Sev- 
enteen long  years  she  sat  at  her  lonely  fireside, 
waiting,  and  hoping,  and  praying  !  For  a  long 
time  she  left  the  door  nightly  open,  in  the  hope 
that  he  might  at  least  come  and  visit  her  in  the 
dark.  But  he  never  came ;  and  long  ago  Kirs- 
ty's  deferred  hope  had  changed  itself  into  a 
prayer,  that  wherever  he  might  be  roaming 
throughout  the  wide  world,  they  might  meet 
in  the  home  of  God  at  last. 

Sometimes,  after  a  long  night  of  prayer  for 
her  lost  son,  the  mother  felt  as  if  she  heard  a 
voice,  saying,  "  I  have  seen  his  ways,  and  I  will 
heal  him ; "  and  she  would  begin  the  lonely  day 
with  lightened  heart.  And  now,  at  last,  she 
had  the  joy  of  knowing  from  the  lips  of  his 
dying  wife  that  the  wanderer,  who  feared  to 
come  again  to  the  Glen,  and  had  sought  refuge 
for  his  blighted  life  in  distant  lands,  had,  at 
last,  been  led  unto  the  fold  above,  and  had 
learnt  to  know  the  Shepherd's  voice,  and  tc 


THE  GYPSIES  AT  LAST.  203 


follow  it  in  the  midst  of  many  earthly  trials 
and  hard  experiences  through  which  he  had  to 
pass. 

So  this  sorrowful  night  was  mingled  with 
great  joy  to  Kirsty,  as  she  kept  watch  in  the 
fir-wood.  Morag  felt  sure  that  she  must  have 
much  to  say  to  her  unseen  Friend,  as  she  sat 
resting  her  head  on  her  long  thin  hand,  and 
gazing  into  the  red  embers  among  the  stones. 
The  little  girl  crouched  silently  by  her  side, 
often  glancing  at  the  tartan  folds  that  covered 
the  weary  sleeper  below,  and  pondering  over 
the  events  of  this  strange  afternoon. 

And  as  she  sat  keeping  vigil,  there  came  to 
her  memory  the  story  of  a  very  sorrowful 
night,  of  which  she  had  been  reading  with 
Kirsty  only  the  day  before.  It  was  the  scene 
in '  the  old  garden  of  Gethsemane,  where  the 
Lord  Jesus  Christ  spent  those  terrible  hours, 
"  exceeding  sorrowful  even  unto  death." 

It  was  the  first  time  that  Morag  had  heard 
of  it,  and  the  hot  tears  of  pity  stole  down  her 
face  as  she  listened.  Kirsty  had  looked  up, 
and  said  gently,  as  she  laid  her  hand  on  her 
head,  "Bairn,  I  dinna  wonder  though  ye  greet. 
It  was  a  sair  dark  nicht  i'  the  history  o'  the 
warl'.  But  jist  ye  read  a  bittie  farther  on, 
aboot  how  they  garred  Him  tak'  His  ain  cross 


204  MO  RAG. 

up  the  brae;  the  women  grat  for  verra  pity, 
and  syne  He  turned  HimseP,  and  spak'  til 
them,  sayin',  'Daughters  o'  Jerooslem,  weep 
no  for  me,  but  for  yersels  and  for  yer  chil- 
dren.' "  And  Morag  thought  that  she  under- 
stood why  Jesus  was  called  the  "  Lamb  of  God, 
who  taketh  away  the  sin  of  the  world." 

At  last  the  chill  grey  morning  light  came 
stealing  through  the  dark  green  boughs  and 
among  the  tall  fir-trees.  Presently  the  lonely 
watch  was  broken  by  the  arrival  of  messengers 
from  the  castle,  bringing  with  them  every 
comfort  which  could  be  stowed  away  in  a  huge 
hamper. 

"  'Deed  it's  richt  mindfu'  o'  the  wee  leddy 
o'  the  castle  to  sen'  sic  a  hantle  o'  things," 
said  Kirsty,  rising  slowly  to  receive  the  ser- 
vants. "  An'  I'm  thinkin'  she  left  her  bonnie 
white  coatie  yestreen  to  mak'  a  safter  heid  for 
the  puir  lamb.  Ye'll  jist  tak'  it  wi  ye  noo, 
gin  it  please  ye,  sirs — and  a'  the  ither  things, 
forby.  We  dinna  need  them  here.  Tell  ye 
the  wee  leddy  that  the  puir  weary  craeter  she 
Saw  lyin'  sae  low  yestreen  i'  the  fir-wood  is 
awa  this  mornin'  among  the  green  pasters  and 
the  still  waters  o'  the  Father's  hoose,  where 
there's  nae  mair  hunger,  nor  sorrow,  nor  cryin', 
for  the  auld  things  hae  passed  awa." 


IX. 
VANITY  FAIR. 

T  was  nearly  the  end  of  September  now  , 
the  air  of  Glen  Eagle  began  to  feel 
chilly,  and  the  purple  bloom  was  fading 
from  the  hills,  but  the  interior  of  Kirs- 
ty's  cottage  looked  as  warm  and  bright  as  ever, 
when  one  afternoon  Blanche  Clifford  came 
bounding  in  with  glowing  cheeks,  after  a  race 
across  the  heather,  followed  by  Morag,  to  pay 
a  visit  to  their  old  friend. 

Kenneth  had  just  been  piling  one  or  two 
sturdy  birk  logs  on  the  peat- tire,  in  preparation 
for  their  arrival.  His  grandmother's  cottage 
was  his  home  now ;  the  cheery  fire  which  he 
had  jusl;  made  was  quite  a  fitting  emblem  of 
the  brightness  which  he  had  brought  into  the 
lonely  dwelling.  His  mother  had  been  laid  in 
the  quiet  grave-yard  on  the  hillside,  and  the 
boy  often  stole  out  in  the  gloaming  to  hover 
round  the  fresh -laid  turf.  He  seldom,  however, 
spoke  of  the  past,  and  already  began  to  lose  his 


206  MORAG. 

careworn  expression,  which  had  so  touched  the 
hearts  of  the  little  girls  in  the  fir-wood.  In- 
deed he  appeared  daily  to  gain  strength  and 
manliness;  while  Kirsty  watched  the  change 
with  mingled  feelings,  remembering  a  Kenneth 
of  other  days,  whose  strength  had  once  been 
her  pride. 

"  How  nice  and  cosy  you  do  always  look 
here !  "  exclaimed  Blanche,  glancing  round  the 
room,  as  she  seated  herself  on  Thrummy  at 
Kirsty 's  feet.  "When  I'm  an  old  woman,  I 
mean  to  have  a  room  exactly  like  this.  I 
couldn't  endure  to  live  in  a  house  with  so 
many  rooms  as  papa's,  or  as  Aunt  Matilda's. 
One  never  knows  in  which  room  they  may  be 
sitting,  and  can  never  picture  them  to  one's 
self  if  you  are  away,  and  want  to  think  of 
them.  Now,  Kirsty,  when  I  go  back  to  Lon- 
don, I  shall  always  be  able  to  think  of  you  just 
as  you  are  now,"  said  the  little  girl,  as  she  laid 
her  hands  on  the  lap  of  her  old  peasant  friend. 
Kirsty  was  seated  in  the  ingleneuk  in  her  high- 
elbowed  chair,  knitting  placidly.  Her  fingers 
moved  rapidly  round  the  rough  blue  stocking 
which  she  had  in  progress,  but  her  eyes  rested 
kindly  on  Blanche,  and  she  smiled  as  she  lis- 
tened to  her  pleasant  prattle.  She,  too,  as  well 
as  Morag,  had  learnt  to  love  this  little  English 


VANITY  FAIR,  207 


maiden,  with  her  pretty,  gracious  ways,  who 
had  made  herself  so  happy  in  the  Highland 
glen,  and  showed  such  warm  friendship  for 
them  all.  Since  the  weather  became  colder, 
the  scene  of  the  reading  lessons  had  been  trans- 
ferred from  the  fir-wood  to  the  ben  end  of  the 
cottage,  and  the  old  woman  was  always  an  in- 
terested listener,  often  unravelling  knotty  points 
by  her  shrewd  remarks  and  wise  decisions. 

Sometimes,  too,  Blanche  would  entertain 
her  Highland  friends  with  descriptions  of  the 
world  beyond  the  mountains,  and  expatiate  on 
the  many  marvels  of  the  great  city  she  lived 
in.  Morag's  eye  would  dilate  with  wonder 
and  awe  as  she  described  the  grand  old  Ab- 
bey, filled  with  the  dust  of  kings  and  states- 
men, soldiers  and  poets,  or  dwelt  on  the  varied 
delights  of  a  day  at  the  Crystal  Palace  or  the 
Kensington  Museum. 

After  Morag's  fingers  had  laboriously  trav- 
elled over  a  few  pages  of  the  "  Pilgrim's  Pro- 
gress,'' she  begged  that  Blanche  would  read  a 
little.  The  little  mountain  maiden's  reading 
capacities  did  not  at  all  keep  pace  with  her  de- 
sire to  know  ;  and  now  she  sat,  coiled  up  at 
Kirsty's  feet,  listening  with  eager  interest,  as 
the  wee  leddy's  clear  voice  flowed  pathetically 
on,  concerning  the  cruel  treatment  which  the 


208  MORAG. 

Pilgrims  received  from  the  people  of  Vanity 
Fair. 

"  Vanity  Fair  ! — how  funny  !"  exclaimed 
Blanche,  .as  she  tossed  back  her  curls  and 
looked  up.  "Do  you  know,  Kirsty,  there  is 
a  place  in  London,  called  Hyde  Park,  where 
I  sometimes  go  to  drive  and  ride  with  papa, 
though  not  nearly  so  often  as  I  should  like. 
"Well,  Kirsty,  I  remember  one  afternoon  when 
we  were  there,  papa  met  an  old,  very  old  gen- 
tleman— rather  queer  looking — whom  he  hadn't 
seen  for  ever  so  long.  He  held  out  his  hand  to 
papa,  and  I  remember  he  said,  '  Well,  Arthur, 
}7ou  didn't  expect  to  meet  me  in  Vanity  Fair, 
I  daresay  ? '  and  then  he  laughed  ;  and  I  wanted 
to  ask  papa  afterwards  what  he  meant,  but  I 
suppose  I  forgot.  But,  Kirsty,  it  surely  can't 
be  the  same  place  where  they  were  so  unkind 
to  the  poor  pilgrims,  and  called  them  names, 
could  it?" 

"  'Deed,  bairn,  but  I'm  nae  sae  sure  o'  that 
noo.  The  Apostle  Paul  says  that  the  carnal 
hert  is  enmity  agin'  God.  And  .dinna  ye  min' 
how  the  Maister  says  Himsel',  '  Marvel  not 
though  the  war?  hate  ye.  Ye  know  that  it 
hated  me  afore  it  hated  you.'  But  forbid  that 
I  should  say  He  hasna  a  remnant  o'  His  ain  in- 
tilt,  bairn,"  said  Kirsty,  as  she  noticed  Blanche's 


VANITY  FAIR.  209 


troubled  face.  "  It's  His  ain  prayer  til  His 
Father,  ye  ken,  no  to  tak'  them  oot  o'  the 
warl',  but  to  keep  them  frae  the  evil,''  she  ad- 
ded solemnly. 

"  Oh !  but  indeed,  Kirsty,  I  am  sure  that 
none  of  the  people  in  the  Park  could  possibly 
be  cruel  to  the  poor  pilgrims,"  replied  Blanche, 
rather  on  the  defensive.  "  There  are  such 
pretty  ladies  and  gentlemen,  riding  and  driving 
about ;  I'm  sure  they  wouldn't  hurt  anybody. 
I  like  so  much  to  go  to  the  Park !  and  papa 
says,  when  I'm  grown  up  and  have  quite  fin- 
ished lessons,  that  I  may  go  there  to  ride  or 
drive  every  day,  if  I  like.  I'm  sure  I  wish  the 
time  were  come !  ''  and  the  prospect  seemed  so 
inspiring  that  Blanche  jumped  up,  upsetting 
Thrummy  in  her  progress  round  the  earthen 
floor  in  a  gleeful  waltz. 

Morag's  eyes  followed  her  bonnie  wee  led- 
dy  wistfully.  Somehow  her  heart  sank  at  the 
vista  which  seemed  to  stretch  out,  so  fair  and 
pleasant,  in  Blanche's  eyes.  They  were  play- 
fellows now,  but  how  would  it  be  in  these  days 
to  come,  when  her  little  friend  merged  into  one 
of  these  grand  ladies  whom  she  had  been  de- 
scribing ? 

Presently  Blanche  picked  up  her  stool,  and 
came  to  seat  herself  at  Kirsty's  feet  again. 
14 


210  MORAG. 

"  Eh,  my  bonny  lambie ! ''  murmured  the 
old  woman,  as  she  stroked  the  little  girl's 
golden  crown.  "  May  the  Guid  Shepherd 
Himsel'  gather  ye  in  His  ain  arms,  and  carry 
ye  intil  His  bosom  a'  thro'  the  slippy  places, 
and  keep  ye  a  bonnie  white  lambie,  til  he  tak's 
ye  safe  hame  til  the  fauld !  " 

Morag  did  not  say  ''Amen"  audibly,  for 
she  had  not  yet  learnt  that  conventional  ending 
to  a  petition.  But  none  the  less  did  she  join 
Kirsty  in  fervent  asking,  that  the  Lord  Jesus 
Christ  would  preserve  their  bonnie  wee  leddy 
amid  all  the  dangers  of  this  terrible  Yanity  Fair, 
which  had  proved  so  full  of  perils  for  the  pil- 
grims in  the  story. 

A  shade  of  seriousness  stole  across  Blanche's 
face  as  Kirsty's  long  thin  fingers  played  among 
her  hair,  while  she  uttered  this  blessing-prayer ; 
but  the  shadow  did  not  linger  long  there. 
The  little  girl  had  never  thought  of  life  as 
being  difficult  and  dangerous,  and  did  not 
feel  the  need  of  a  friend  and  guide.  More- 
over, she  did  not  like  anything  that  made  her 
feel  serious,  so  she  quickly  closed  the  book, 
and,  restoring  it  to  its  place  on  the  shelf,  ran 
away  to  the  cottage  door,  warbling  a  gay 
song,  as  she  plucked  some  berries  from  one 
of  the  old  rowan  trees  to  make  a  wreath  for 
Morag,  and  crown  her  queen  of  gypsies. 


VANITY  FAIR.  211 


Presently  the  old  woman  came  and  seated 
herself  on  the  door-step.  Her  knitting  was 
in  her  hand,  but  it  lay  idly  on  her  lap,  and 
she  sat  watching  the  little  girl  with  tear- 
dimmed  eyes.  She  trembled  for  the  many 
snares  and  dangers  which  the  days  to  come 
would  be  sure  to  bring  to  the  beautiful  high- 
born child.  But  Kirsty  forgot  that  there  were 
shorter,  safer,  smoother  paths  to  the  golden 
city  than  through  the  many  windings  of 
Vanity  Fair. 

"I  have  just  been  to  old  Neil's,  grand- 
mother," said  Kenneth,  as  he  walked  in  at 
the  little  gate  on  his  return  from  a  message 
to  the  carrier  of  the  Glen.  "  He  says  he'll  be 
happy  to  oblige  you  with  the  cart  on  Sunday 
for  the  kirk.  He'll  not  be  able  to  go  himself, 
because  of  his  rheumatism ;  but  he  is  to  lend 
the  cart  if  I'll  yoke  the  horse." 

"  I'm  richt  glaid  to  hear't,  laddie,"  replied 
Kirsty.  "It's  mony  a  Sawbbath  day  sin'  I 
ha'  been  i'  the  kirk.  'Deed  I  thocht  never 
to  sit  at  His  table  upon  the  earth  anither 
time." 

"  Morag,  hae  ye  speird  gin  yer  father  be 
gaein'  to  lat  ye  gang  wi'  me  til  the  kirk  ? " 

"Ay,  Kirsty,  I've  been  askin'  him,  but 
he  hasna  said  yet.  I'm  no  thinkin'  he'll 


212  MO  RAG. 

do't,  though.  But  he  said  he  would  see  yer- 
sel'  afore  that  time.  Maybe  he'll  be  up  the 
nicht." 

"  Oh,  Kirsty,  are  you  really  going  to  that 
pretty  little  church  in  the  village  on  Sunday? 
Do  let  me  go  with  you ;  I  want  so  to  see  the 
inside  of  it,"  chimed  in  Blanche,  eagerly. 
"  It  will  be  so  much  nicer  than  reading  pray- 
ers with  Miss  Prosser  in  that  dreadful  school- 
room." 

"  Weel,  I'se  be  richt  glaid  to  tak'  ye  wi' 
me,  bairn,  gin  yer  folk  doesna  objec' ;  but  I'm 
no  thinkin'  they  would  lat  ye  gang  ava.  It's 
a  lang  road,  and,  ye  see,  we'll  jist  hae  Neil's 
cartie,  wi'  a  puckle  strae  intilt,  and  that'll 
maybe  no  be  fit  for  the  like  o'  you." 

"  Oh,  yes,  of  course  it  would — perfectly 
delicious,"  cried  Blanche,  clapping  her  hands. 
"  I  must  really  go  with  you,  Kirsty.  I  shall 
ask  papa  to-night,  if  I  have  a  chance ;  it  would 
be  such  fun,  wouldn't  it,  Morag  ? " 

"  Sawbbath  '11  be  a  gran'  day.  It's  the  Sac- 
rament wi'  us,  ye  ken,"  said  Kirsty  looking 
up  from  her  knitting.  "But  I'm  thinkin'  it 
wad  be  ower  langsome  like  for  you  bairns, — 
though  I'se  houp  there's  a  day  comin'  when 
ye'll  be  sittin'  doon  til  the  table  yersels,  and 
meetin'  wi'  Himsel'  there,"  continued  the 


VANITY  FAIR.  213 

old  woman,  as  she  gazed  kindly  at  the  little 
group.  • 

"  Oh,  is  it  really  the  Holy  Communion  ;  and 
may  we  children  stay  ?  I  should  like  above  all 
things  to  see  it ;  shouldn't  you,  Morag  ?  Miss 
Prosser  always  sends  me  home  with  Ellis  when 
she  stays  to  Communion.  But  then  it  doesn't 
last  very  long  at  all.  For  by  the  time  that  I've 
spoken  to  Chance  and  my  birds,  she  has  always 
come  home  again.  But,  perhaps,  it  is  some- 
thing quite  different  here,  is  it  not,  Kirsty  ?  " 

""Weel,  I'm  thinkin'  there  will  be  some 
differ  from  what  I  hae  heerd  tell.  But  eh, 
bairn,  I  mak'  nae  doobt  that  He  feeds  His  ain 
folk  the  richt  gait,  in  ilka  part  o'  His  warl'." 

"  Here's  yer  father  comin'  inby,  Morag  ! '' 
said  Kirsty,  as  she  rose  to  welcome  the  keeper, 
whom  she  saw  leaning  against  the  garden  gate, 
looking  at  the  group  round  the  cottage  door. 

The  keeper  had  become  a  frequent  visitor 
at  Kirsty's  cottage  since  that  eventful  evening 
in  the  fir-wood.  Often,  when  the  work  of  the 
day  was  done,  he  might  be  seen  wandering 
across  the  moor  in  the  gloaming,  in  the  direc- 
of  the  abode  which  he  had  viewed  for  so  many 
years  with  mingled  feelings  of  dislike  and  fear. 

Many  a  pleasant  talk  the  old  woman  and 
he  seemed  to  have  together,  and  the  keeper 


214  MO  RAG. 

appeared  more  at  ease  and  happy  in  Kirsty's 
society  than  he  had  been  with  £hy  mortal  for 
many  a  day.  His  face  already  began  to  lose 
the  sinister  expression  which  had  made  Blanche 
distrust  him  on  that  first  day  when  she  saw 
him.  He  did  not  say  the  bitter  things  which 
he  used  to  do  about  his  neighbors  in  the  Glen, 
and  no  longer  prided  himself  in  looking  dark 
and  mysterious  and  self-contained,  but  seemed 
more  happy  with  himself,  and,  consequently, 
with  the  rest  of  the  world. 

Morag  felt,  with  a  daily,  hourly)  silent  glad- 
ness, that  a  change  for  the  better  had  come  to 
her  father.  To  her  he  had  never  been  posi- 
tively unkind,  but  now  he  was  more  gentle  and 
genial  than  she  had  ever  known  him.  Already 
the  little  shieling  among  the  crags  began  to 
show  traces  of  the  brighter  days  which  were 
dawning.  The  evenings  were  no  longer  dreary 
and  monotonous  as  they  used  to  be.  For  the 
company  of  books  had  been  summoned  from 
the  old  kist,  where  they  had  been  buried  so 
long,  and  they  proved  very  pleasant  companions 
to  both  father  and  daughter.  Dingwall  would 
occasionally  read  aloud  to  Morag  as  she  worked  ; 
and  thus  finally  proved  that  his  former  dislike 
to  reading  had  not  arisen  from  an  ignorance  of 
the  art,  as  Morag  had  sometimes  suspected. 


VANITY  FAIR.  215 

Occasionally,  a  bundle  of  old  newspapers 
from  the  castle  found  their  way  to  the  hut,  and 
were  eagerly  scanned  by  the  keeper  as  he 
smoked  his  pipe ;  and  his  remarks  to  his  little 
daughter  showed  her  that  he  knew  more  about 
the  world  beyond  the  mountains  than  she  ever 
guessed. 

And  now  he  seemed  to  notice  favorably 
Morag's  efforts  after  domestic  reform,  which 
he  had  sneered  at,  or  completely  ignored  be- 
fore. He  commended  her  on  her  attempts  to 
improve  the  interior  of  the  hut,  and  occasion- 
ally teased  her  laughingly  about  her  imitation 
of  Kirsty's  domestic  arrangements,  which  was 
everywhere  visible. 

It  seemed  suddenly  to  occur  to  him  that 
since  the  laird  would  not  have  the  hut  mended, 
he  possibly  might  make  some  effort  towards 
its  restoration  himself,  and  he  began  to  make 
plans  for  the  repairing  of  the  porous  roof,  after 
the  shooting  party  should  have  taken  their  de- 
parture. 

Morag  could  date  this  happy  change  in  her 
life  from  that  eventful  evening  in  the  fir-wood, 
and  she  often  thought  that,  whatever  the  old 
quarrel  had  been,  the  healing  of  it  had  proved 
a  very  blessed  thing  for  all  of  them. 

Sometimes  Morag  overheard  Kirsty  talking 


216  MO  RAG. 

to  her  father  in  low,  earnest  tones,  as  he  stood 
beside  her,  listening  quietly,  and  more  than 
once  she  caught  the  name  of  Kirsty's  Lord  and 
Master  mingling  with  their  talk  ;  and  then  the 
little  girl's  heart  was  filled  with  gladness.  She 
never  yet  had  the  courage  to  tell  her  father 
about  that  new  Life  which  she  had  been  find- 
ing during  these  autumn  days ;  but  she  often 
longed  to  do  so,  and  wag  only  prevented  by 
her  extreme  shyness  and  reserve.  She  felt 
very  anxious  that  her  father  should  come  to 
know  and  love  that  unseen,  but  real  Friend, 
who  had  been  the  light  of  Kirsty's  lonely 
home  for  so  many  years,  and  whom  she  was 
now  learning  to  know  and  love. 

Occasionally,  when  her  father  and  Kirsty 
were  engaged  in  these  conversations,  Morag 
would  start  with  Kenneth  on  an  expedition  to 
some  of  their  moorland  haunts,  to  introduce 
them  to  the  stranger  lad.  They  often  wan- 
dered into  the  little  graveyard  on  the  hillside, 
and  stood  silently  beside  the  fresh-laid  turf, 
while  Morag  tried  to  recall  the  face  of  the 
quiet  sleeper  below ;  and  Kenneth's  thoughts 
went  slipping  back  to  the  time  when  he  played 
at  his  mother's  knee,  a  merry  little  boy. 

It  was  rather  a  grief  of  mind  to  Kirsty 
that  she  never  could  induce  her  grandson  to 


VANITY  FAIR.  217 


talk  of  the  past,  nor  to  give  any  chronicle  of 
his  former  life,  which  she  fain  would  have 
heard;  but  she  was  both  wise  and  kind,  and 
did  not  seek  to  elicit  confidences  which  were 
not  freely  bestowed,  hoping  that  the  time 
would  come  when  they  might  be  voluntarily 
given. 

But,  sometimes,  on  the  way  home  from 
these  visits  to  the  little  graveyard,  Kenneth 
would  talk  to  the  quiet  Morag  as  he  never  had 
done  to  Kirsty.  And  as  he  told  of  his  past 
chequered  life,  the  eyes  of  the  little  maiden 
were  filled  with  wonder  and  pity  at  the  strange 
experiences  through  which  her  boy-friend  had 
passed  in  the  world  beyond  the  mountains. 

Kenneth  was  daily  gaining  in  vigor  and 
manliness.  The  bracing  mountain  air  seemed 
to  put  new  life  and  strength  into  him ;  and  in 
Kirsty 's  comfortable  dwelling  he  had  parted 
with  those  wearing  anxieties  which  had  so 
long  darkened  his  young  life, — though  with  a 
darkening  that  had  not  been  evil. 

Kirsty  was  very  anxious  that  her  grandson 
should  at  once  choose  a  trade  and  begin  to 
work.  She  dreaded  idleness  for  him,  above 
all  things,  and  was  somewhat  dismayed  to  find 
his  love  for  mountain  roamings,  and  to  notice 
his  intense  enjoyment  in  a  day  with  the  keeper 


218  MORAG. 

at  the  moors.  The  boy  little  knew  what  pain 
it  gave  to  his  grandmother  when  one  day  that 
they  were  talking  about  his  future  work  in  life 
he  frankly  acknowledged  that  he  should  like 
nothing  half  so  well  as  to  be  a  gamekeeper  like 
Dingwall. 

But  seventeen  years  of  growing  trust  in  the 
wise  love  and  gracious  leading  of  her  Heavenly 
Father  enabled  her  to  commit  the  boy  to  His 
care,  and  to  bid  him  go  and  prosper  in  the 
path  of  life  which  he  had  chosen. 


z. 

THE  KIRK  IN  THE  VILLAGE. 

AYE  you  heard  your  pupil's  latest  re- 
quest, Miss  Prosser  ? "  asked  Mr.  Clif- 
ford, laughingly,  as  he  turned  from 
Blanche,  who  had  been  pleading  her 
suit  in  low,  coaxing  tones.  "  She  actually 
wants  to  go  to  the  kirk  in  the  village  for  some 
high  festival  occasion  next  Sunday — and  in 
company  with  that  wonderful  Kirsty,  too, 
whom  we  hear  so  much  about  just  now.  She 
refuses  with  disdain  my  kind  offer  of  the  car- 
riage for  herself  and  party — wants  to  go  in  a 
wheel-barrow,  or  something  of  that  description 
— is  it  not,  Blanche?  " 

"  Oh  no,  papa !  how  can  you  think  such 
absurd  things?  We  are  going  in  Neil's  cart, 
of  course.  It  will  be  such  fun!  Kirsty  says 
there  will  be  lots  of  straw  for  seats,  and  Ken- 
neth is  to  drive.  You  know  you  have  more 
than  half  promised  to  let  me  go,  papa,"  added 
Blanche,  beseechingly  clinging  to  her  father  in 
the  hope  of  an  immediate  decision  in  her  favor, 


£20  MO  RAG. 

for  her  governess  had  raised  her  voice  in  strong 
disapproval  of  such  an  irregular  proceeding. 

Mr.  Clifford  had  noticed  with  pleasure  how 
much  his  little  daughter  seemed  to  be  enjoying 
these  autumn  days  in  the  Highlands,  which  he 
feared  might  prove  duller  than  she  expected. 
It  was  evident,  too,  that  her  enjoyment  of  them 
consisted  chiefly  in  the  companionship  she  had 
made  with  those  peasant  friends  in  the  Glen. 

Blanche's  glowing  description  of  Kirsty, 
and  her  repetition  of  several  of  the  old  wom- 
an's shrewd  sayings,  gave  Mr.  Clifford  a  favor- 
able impression  of  Kirsty.  And  for  the  lit- 
tle Morag  he  had  always  entertained  a  special 
liking  since  the  stormy  day  on  which  he  had 
found  her,  all  alone,  at  work  on  the  soaking 
earthen  floor  of  the  hut,  and  he  congratulated 
himself  on  having  secured  her  as  an  appendage 
to  the  little  Shetlander.  He  frequently  assured 
the  doubting  Miss  Prosser  that  the  child  would 
get  no  harm  from  her  intercourse  with  these 
dwellers  in  the  Glen ;  and,  in  the  present  in- 
stance, he  did  not  object  that  she  should  see  a 
new  phase  of  life,  in  company  with  her  Highland 
friends. 

Before  Blanche  went  to  bed,  she  had  gained 
her  father's  consent  to  the  Sunday  project.  She 
lay  awake  for  a  long  time,  thinking  how  very 


THE  KIRK  IN  THE   VILLAGE.  221 


delightful  it  would  be  to  go  to  church  with 
Kirsty  and  Morag — and  in  a  cart,  too  ;  and  to 
be  obliged  to  stay  so  long  away  that  she  should 
not  be  at  home  either  for  early  dinner  or  after- 
noon lessons  with  her  governess,  so  that  the 
latter  would  have  to  be  dispensed  with  alto- 
gether. Blanche  thought  it  would  be  the  most 
delightfully  out-of-the-way  Sunday  which  she 
had  ever  known ;  and  she  fell  asleep  at  last, 
to  dream  that  she  and  Morag,  with  Kirsty  and 
Kenneth,  had  come  rumbling  in  Neil's  cart  into 
Westminster  Abbey  while  service  was  going  on. 

Morag,  too,  on  that  same  evening,  after  a 
more  brief  and  tremulous  suit  than  her  wee  led- 
dy's,  had  gained  her  father's  permission  to  go  to 
the  kirk,  for  the  first  time  in  her  life. 

To  the  little  English  girl  the  prospect  was 
merely  a  pleasant  ploy ;  but  to  Morag  Dingwall 
it  was  the  fulfilling  of  a  dream  of  years.  How 
often  she  had  watched,  and  how  much  she  had 
longed  to  join,  the  little  straggling  companies 
wending  their  way  along  the  white  hilly  roads 
from  all  parts  of  the  Glen  to  meet  in  that  lit- 
tle kirk  in  the  village,  which  she  had  never  seen 
but  closed  and  silent.  Kirsty  often  told  her 
that  the  Lord  Jesus  Christ  loved  to  have  His 
people  gather  to  worship  Him.  Only  a  few 
days  ago  she  had  been  reading  to  the  little  girl 


222  MORAG. 

the  story  of  how  He  had  once  come,  after  He 
rose  from  the  dead,  into  the  midst  of  a  little 
company  which  had  met  to  worship,  and  of 
how  He  had  stretched  forth  His  hands,  saying, 
"  Peace  be  unto  you.'' 

Morag  had  remarked,  in  a  mournful  tone, 
"  He  never  does  the  like  noo,  Kirsty ;  would  ye 
no  like  to  see  Him,  jist  ance  ? " 

"An'  have  I  no  seen  Him?"  answered 
Kirsty,  triumphantljr.  "  'Deed,  bairn,  I've 
whiles  felt  as  near  'til  Him  as  gin  His  fingers 
were  wavin'  aboun'  my  heid,  wi'  the  verra 
words  i'  His  mou',  an'  'Peace  be  wi'  ye.'  I 
aye  gaed  oot  o'  His  hoose  wi'  a  blither  hert 
an'  o  lichter  fit  than  I  gaed  tilt." 

The  old  woman  had  never  been  strong 
enough  to  go  to  the  kirk  since  Morag's  acquain- 
tance with  her,  and  she  mourned  over  it  as  a 
great  privation.  Neil's  cart  was  a  rare  luxury, 
only  procurable  indeed  on  Communion  Sab- 
baths, which  were  held  once  a  year  in  the  Glen, 
when  the  scattered  inhabitants  came  from  its 
remotest  parts, — many  of  them  across  miles  of 
pathless  hills,  to  share  in  the  services  of  the 
day. 

Never  did  Jewish  peasant  go  up  to  the 
Holy  City  on  the  great  day  of  the  Feast  with 
more  joy  and  hope  than  did  Kirsty  Macpherson 


THE  KIRK  IN  THE  VILLAGE.  223 

'  I 

to  the  yearly  communion  at  the  village  kirk. 
And,  to  the  present  occasion,  she  looked  for- 
ward with  special  gladness;  for  had  she  not 
to  give  thanks  for  a  dear  one  whom  she  knew, 
at  last,  to  be  safe  in  the  home  of  God — the 
homeless  wanderer,  whose  name  had  often  been 
borne  by  her  in  agony  from  that  communion- 
table to  the  ear  of  Him  who  came  to  seek  and 
save  the  lost  ? 

Morag  was  waiting  in  the  castle  court-yard 
on  Sunday  morning,  long  before  the  little  chate- 
laine had  completed  her  toilette  to  her  maid's 
satisfaction.  At  last  the  door  was  swung  open, 
j,nd  the  wee  leddy  came  running  out  to  meet 
1  er  friend,  looking  fresh  and  dainty  in  her  spot- 
less white  dress  and  pretty  blue  hat,  with  which 
Ellis  had  adorned  her — not  without  many  re- 
grets that  such  elegant  garments  should  descend 
to  such  degraded  uses  as  a  seat  in  a  cart ;  but, 
since  she  was  going  to  church,  her  maid  con- 
cluded that,  of  a  necessity,  she  must  wear  her 
best  attire. 

"  How  bonnie  ye  look !  "  exclaimed  Morag, 
gazing  at  her  wee  leddy  with  unfeigned  admira- 
tion. "  Ye're  jist  like  the  sky  itsel',  a'  blue- 
and-white  like." 

"  So  I  am  !  how  funny  !  But  oh,  Morag, 
is  not  this  a  glorious  morning  ?  Won't  Kirsty 


224  MORAG. 

be  pleased  ?  I  really  think  it's  the  finest  day 
we've  had  since  I  came  to  Glen  Eagle.  I'm  so 
happy,"  and  Blanche  danced  gleefully  on  the 
soft  turf.  "  Now,  Chance,  you  needn't  be  wag- 
ging your  tail.  You  are  not  to  be  invited  to 
come  with  us  to-day,  my  dear  dog.  It's  Sun- 
day, you  know,  and  we  are  going  to  church 
with  Kirsty  and  Kenneth ;  and  dogs  never  do 
go  to  church  you  know,  Chance." 

"  Ay  do  they,  whiles ! "  interrupted  Morag, 
patting  the  pleading  Chance  sympathizingly ; 
"  they  gang  to  the  kirk  ony way.  For  I've 
often  thought  I  wad  jist  like  to  be  auld  Neil's 
collie,  when  I've  seen  him  passin'  wi'  Neil  on  a 
Sabbath  mornin',  and  I  was  feelin'  terrible  lone- 
some at  hame.  Kirsty  says,  '  The  dogs  are 
mony  a  time  quaieter  than  the  bairns  at  the 
kirk,  and  that  attentive-like.' "  But  Morag 
agreed  that  since  Chance  was  not  a  dog  of 
church-going  habits,  it  would  be  wiser  to  leave 
him  at  home. 

Neil's  cart  already  stood  on  the  road  at  the 
cottage  gate  when  the  little  girls  reached  it. 
Kenneth  was  waiting  at  the  horse's  head,  and 
Kirsty  came  forth  in  all  the  glory  of  a  spotless 
white  mutch  (a  high  cap  of  muslin,  worn  by 
the  old  peasant  women  of  Scotland).  She  wore 
also  a  pretty  scarlet  cloak,  which  had  been  her 


THE  KIRK  IN  THE   VILLAGE.  225 


best  attire  for  the  last  fifty  years.  In  her  hand 
she  held  her  big,  worn  Bible,  carefully  wrapped 
in  her  ample  white  pocket-handkerchief,  and 
from  it  there  projected  some  stalks  of  thyme, 
and  mint,  and  southernwood,  as  a  preventive 
against  possible  drowsiness,  during  the  long  ser- 
vices of  the  day. 

"  Welcome  til  ye,  my  bairns,"  said  she, 
greeting  the  little  girls  kindly,  as  she  closed  the 
little  gate  behind  her.  "  Havna  we  gotten  a 
bonnie  Sawbbath-day  ?  It's  jist  an  oncommon 
fine  mornin'  for  this  time  o'  the  year.  May 
the  Sun  o'  Richtyousness  arise  wi'  healin'  intil 
His  wings  the  day,  lichtin'  up  a'  the  dark  herts, 
— jist  as  the  bonnie  sun  this  mornin'  garred  the 
drumlie  licht  weir  aff  the  glen,"  added  Kirsty, 
with  a  glad  light  in  her  calm  gray  eyes. 

Blanche  had  already  mounted  into  the  cart, 
and  was  jumping  about  among  the  straw, 
greatly  to  the  destruction  of  Ellis's  careful 
morning  toilette. 

"  O  Kenneth  !  isn't  this  so  very  jolly  ?  It 
will  be  such  fun  going  to  church  like  this.  I'm 
sure  I  shall  never  forget  it  all  my  life.  I  do 
wish  papa  could  see  us  start.  Do  you  know  I 
almost  think  he  wanted  to?  Doesn't  Kirsty 
look  beautiful  ?  I  wish  she'd  always  wear  that 
red  cloak  ;  don't  you,  Kenneth  ?  " 
15 


226  MO  RAG 

The  old  woman  came  leaning  on  Morag' s 
shoulder,  aad  stepped  into  the  cart,  followed  by 
the  little  girl.  Kenneth  cracked  the  whip  with 
an  air  of  business,  and  the  little  company 
started. 

It  was  certainly  a  perfect  autumn  day,  and 
Glen  Eagle  was  looking  its  loveliest.  Kirsty's 
face  wore  a  look  of  holy  peace,  as  she  sat  si- 
lently with  folded  hands,  and  gazed  upon  the 
calm,  still  scene  around.  "  I  hae  jist  been 
minin'  o'  that  glaidsome  word  o'  David's," 
she  said  presently,  turning  to  Morag,  who  was 
seated  by  her  side.  "  '  The  Lord  is  good  til  a', 
an'  His  tender  mercies  are  ower  a'  His  warks.' 
I'm  thinkin'  it  maun  jist  hae  been  on  some 
bonnie  quaiet  day  like  this,  when  he  was  awa' 
frae  the  din  an'  the  steer  of  Jerooslem,  'at  he 
thocht  on  makin'  that  bonnie  psalm." 

Morag  had  never  heard  the  psalm,  but  she 
resolved  she  would  try  to  find  it  that  evening, 
and  perhaps  her  father  might  help  her.  She 
said  the  verse  over  to  herself,  and  thought 
Kirsty  must  be  right  in  imagining  that  the 
poet-king  would  think  his  beautiful  thoughts 
on  such  a  day  as  this. 

But  Kenneth,  who  had  been  listening  qui- 
etly, as  he  walked  by  the  side  of  the  cart,  pres- 
ently looked  up,  and  said,  "  I'm  not  so  sure  of 


THE  KIRK  IN  THE   VILLAGE.          227 


that,  granny.  Don't  yon  think  King  David 
would  just  be  as  likely  to  say  that  after  a  long 
day's  lighting  at  the  head  of  his  soldiers,  or 
after  a  busy  day  in  his  palace,  as  among  sunny 
green  fields  when  he  had  nothing  to  do  but 
enjoy  himself?  Do  you  no  think,  granny,  that 
folk  maybe  need  to  believe  in  the  tender  mer- 
cies of  the  Lord  most  in  the  din  and  the  fret 
of  big  towns,  when,  besides  perhaps  being 
lonely,  and  in  want  one's  self,  you  see  so  many 
people  still  more  sad  and  worse  off  ?  D'ye  no 
think,  granny,  that  it  would  be  more  comfort 
to  think  of  the  tender  mercies  of  the  Lord,  liv- 
ing in  such  dreary  streets,  than  in  such  a  bonnie 
glen  as  this  ? "  said  Kenneth,  smiling  sadly  as 
he  remembered  how  much  he  and  his  mother 
had  needed,  and  how  often  they  had  found, 
these  tender  mercies  in  such  places. 

"  'Deed,  laddie,  I'm  thinkin'  ye  hae  the  richt 
o't  efter  a' ;  I'm  glaid  ye  thocht  o'  that,"  said 
Kirsty,  looking  down  at  her  grandson  with  her 
most  pleased  smile. 

As  Morag  sat  silently  listening  to  the  con- 
versation, she  thought  how  good  it  was  that 
these  "  tender  mercies"  seemed  to  be  over  all, 
— among  the  busy,  crowded  haunts  of  men,  as 
well  as  with  the  lonely  dwellers  among  the 
mountains.  And  as  the  cart  rumbled  slowly 


228  MORAG. 

along  the  winding  road,  the  little  girl  repeated 
the  verse  to  herself  till  she  knew  it  well. 

Many  a  time  in  after  days  that  verse  came 
back  to  her  memory,  sometimes  as  a  prayer,  but 
more  often  a's  a  thanksgiving.  Across  the  waste 
of  years,  with  graves  between  and  many  a  sor- 
row, she  would  look  back  and  remember  this 
still  Sabbath  morning  when  she  went  for  the 
first  time  to  the  little  village  kirk,  and  the 
vanished  faces  that  were  round  her  then ;  and 
she  would  sum  up  the  tender  mercies  of  the 
Lord. 

The  sound  of  the  old  church  bell  now  be- 
gan to  be  heard  across  the  still  moorland.  The 
little  straggling  companies  quickened  their  pace 
at  its  sound,  and  the  nearer  roads  began  to  stir 
with  assembling  worshippers. 

Blanche  looked  with  eager  interest  at  the 
gathering  groups,  occasionally  asking  whisper- 
ed information  from  Morag  concerning  them. 
Among  them  were  old  bent  men  and  young 
children,  who  had  come  many  a  mile  through 
the  pathless  hills  that  morning.  There  wrere 
shepherds  in  their  plaids  and  broad  bonnets, 
with  their  collie  dogs  following,  just  as  Morag 
had  said,  Blanche  noticed ;  and  she  resolved  to 
keep  an  eye  on  their  behavior  in  church,  and 
perhaps  give  Chance  a  similar  privilege  another 


THE  KIRK  LV  THE  VILLAGE.          229 

time  if  her  impression  of  the  conduct  of  the 
collies  was  favorable. 

The  kirk  stood  in  the  centre  of  the  village 
green,  and  when  Kirsty  and  her  young  party 
came  in  sight,  there  were  already  many  grc'iips 
gathered  round  it.  The  old  minister  was  thread- 
ing his  way  among  them,  and  there  was  many 
a  broad  bonnet  raised  and  many  a  curtsy  drop- 
ped, as  with  kindly,  gracious,  though  silent 
greeting  he  passed  into  the  church. 

The  old  bell  was  still  pealing,  sweet  •  and 
musical,  just  as  it  used  to  do  centuries  ago  in  the 
convent  chapel  down  in  the  hollow,  from  whence 
it  had  been  taken  when  the  ancient  chapel  be- 
came a  roofless  ruin ;  and  now  it  called  the 
dwellers  in  the  Glen  to  -the  kirk  with  the  same 
soothing  chime  as  it  used  to  summon  the  nuns 
to  matins  and  vespers,  and  remind  the  scattered 
peasants  that  the  hour  of  prayer  had  come. 

Suddenly  it  ceased  to  chime,  and  the  throng- 
ing groups  on  the  greensward  moved  quietly 
in  at  the  open  doors  of  the  kirk. 

Many  eyes  were  turned  on  Kirsty  and  her 
young  friends  as  they  passed  slowly  up  the 
aisle.  Some  recognized  the  bonnie  wee  leddy 
of  the  castle ;  and  not  a  few  knew  the  nut- 
brown  Morag  by  sight,  and  smiled  kindly  on 
her.  The  story  of  the  poor  woman,  who  had 
9 


230  MQRAG. 

come  to  the  Glen  to  die  on  such  a  lowly  bed, 
was  known  to  many,  and  they  looked  with 
interest  on  Kirsty's  grandson. 

The  kirk  was  almost  tilled  when  they 
entered.  Two  long,  narrow  tables,  covered 
with  white,  stretched  from  the  pulpit  the  whole 
length  of  the  church,  at  which  the  communi- 
cants were  to  sit.  Before  taking  her  place 
there,  Kirsty  led  the  children  to  seats  at  the 
side  of  the  church ;  and  then  she  moved  away 
slowly  to  take  her  solitary  post  at  the  long 
white  table. 

Morag  did  not  venture  to  raise  her  eyes  for 
some  time.  The  scene  was  so  new  and  strange 
to  her  that  for  a  moment  she  felt  something  of 
the  terror-stricken  feeling  which  possessed  her 
on  the  evening  when  she  was  brought  before 
the  party  at  the  castle.  But  when,  at  last,  she 
ventured  to  look  up,  she  caught  a  glimpse  of 
Kirsty's  calm,  wopshipping  face,  and  she  began 
to  feel  more  reassured.  Meanwhile,  Blanche 
kept  gazing  about  in  a  vivacious  manner,  taking 
notes  of  everything.  On  the  whole,  she  felt 
much  disappointment  with  the  interior  of  the 
little  kirk.  It  looked  so  bare  and  stern,  she 
thought,  as  she  searched  in  vain  for  the  altar, 
or  the  organ,  which  she  expected  to  peal  forth 
every  minute. 


THE  KIRK  IN  THE   VILLAGE.          231 


At  last  the  silence  was  broken,  not  by  the 
organ,  but  by  the  grave,  deep  voice  of  the  min- 
ister, who  reared  his  gray  head  from  the  pulpit, 
and  began  to  read  a  grand  old  psalm,  which  the 
congregation  joined  in  singing.  Then  followed 
a  prayer,  and  all  the  people  rose,  the  men  cover- 
ing their  faces  with  their  broad  bonnets. 

Morag  stood  listening  with  closed  eyes  and 
moveless  posture.  Blanche  tried  very  hard  to 
do  so  also,  but  she  could  not  help  opening  her 
eyes  occasionally  to  see  what  the  dogs  wrere 
about,  and  presently  she  began  to  wish  that 
the  prayer  was  done  and  they  would  begin  to 
sing  again.  She  occasionally  made  exploring 
tours  with  her  eyes  over  the  church,  and  at  last 
she  caught  sight  of  Kirsty's  red  cloak  and  fa- 
miliar face,  and  by  her  side  she  saw  a  figure 
which  she  thought  she  recognized.  To  facili- 
tate observations,  she  raised  herself  on  tiptoe ; 
and  at  last  she  was  satisfied  that  the  stalwart 
form  at  the  long  white  table,  beside  Kirsty, 
was  none  other  than  the  keeper  Dingwall.  She 
could  hardly  restrain  an  exclamation  of  surprise 
at  this  discovery.  The  keeper,  she  knew,  was 
not  in  the  habit  of  going  to  church ;  and,  cer- 
tainly, Morag  would  have  told  her  if  she  had 
expected  him  there  to-day.  Very  impatiently 
did  she  listen  to  the  concluding  petitions,  for 


232  MORAG. 

she  could  not  get  Morag  to  open  her  eyes  till 
the  prayer  was  done.  At  last,  while  the  con- 
gregation were  engaged  in  turning  the  leaves 
of  their  Bibles,  in  search  of  the  chapter  about  to 
be  read,  Blanche  contrived  by  a  variety  of  signs 
to  make  Morag's  eyes  alight  on  the  spot  where 
her  father  stood.  If  Blanche's  astonishment 
had  been  great,  Morag's  was  still  greater,  when 
she  caught  sight  of  her  father's  tall  form  rearing 
itself  beside  Kirsty's  bent  head.  This,  then, 
was  the  reason  why  he  had  smiled  so  strangely 
that  morning  when  she  laid  her  hand  on  his 
arm,  and  said,  with  a  great  eifort  to  break 
through  her  reserve,  "O  father!  I  would  like 
richt  weel  gin  ye  were  comin'  til  the  kirk  wi' 
us.  I  ken  fine  the  Lord  Jesus  Christ  would 
be  glaid  to  see  ye.  Kirsty  says  He's  aye  weel 
pleased  to  see  folk  intil  His  ain  hoose." 

And  now  he  was  seated  beside  Kirsty  at 
the  communion-table,  where,  as  the  old  wom- 
an had  told  Morag,  none  but  those  who  loved 
the  Lord  might  come.  The  little  girl  felt  a 
thrill  of  delight,  greater  than  she  ever  did  in 
her  life.  She  felt  sure  that  her  father  must 
have  begun  to  know  and  love  the  Lord  Jesus 
Christ,  or  he  never  would  have  come  there. 
So  happy  and  thankful  was  she,  that  she  could 
not  wait  till  the  minister  prayed  again,  but 


THE  KIRK  IN  THE   VILLAGE.          233 


said,  low  in  her  heart,  words  of  deep  thanks- 
giving. 

There  were  many  besides  Blanche  who 
noticed  with  astonishment  the  tall  form  of  the 
keeper  in  his  unwonted  place  at  the  com- 
munion-table ;  and  many  along  with  Morag 
gave  thanks  to  Him  who  "  turneth  men's  hearts 
as  rivers  of  water  whither  He  will,"  and  who 
had  brought  this  proud,  rebellious  spirit  to  the 
foot  of  His  cross. 

Ding  wall  had  been  welcomed  to  the  place 
he  occupied  to-day  by  the  old  minister  some 
evenings  before  in  the  manse.  He  disclosed 
the  picture  of  his  past  life,  with  its  darkest 
shadows  unrelieved ;  and  had  told  of  his  late 
repentance.  The  pastor  recognized  it  as  genu- 
ine, and  there  was  a  light  in  his  eye  to-day  as 
he  read  his  Master's  message,  "  This  is  a  faith- 
ful saying,  and  worthy  of  all  acceptation,  that 
Jesus  Christ  came  into  the  world  to  save  sin- 
ners. '' 

After  the  usual  service  was  over,  Blanche's 
interest,  which  had  been  flagging,  began  to  re- 
vive, and  she  felt  glad  that  her  maid  was  not  in 
attendance  to  take  her  home,  as  she  felt  curious 
to  know  what  was  coming  next. 

Presently  a  hymn  was  sung  to  a  sad  wailing 
tune,  which  suited  the  words.  It  told  of  that 


234  MO  RAG. 

night  on  which  the  Son  of  Man  endured  the 
"  eager  rage  of  every  foe  ; "  and  Blanche  felt 
a  knot  rise  in  her  throat  as  she  listened  to  it 
and  tried  to  join.  Never  before,  she  thought, 
had  she  felt  so  sorry  for  the  Lord  Jesus  Christ, 
who  was  "  crucified,  dead,  and  buried,"  though 
she  had  heard  all  about  it  so  many  times. 
And  then  she  suddenly  remembered  Morag's 
anxiety  to  know  all  about  the  "  good  Lord  who 
died  on  the  green  hill,"  and  how  many  ques- 
tions she  used  to  ask  about  Him  during  the 
first  days  of  their  acquaintance ;  but  she  never 
mentioned  the  subject  now,  so  Blanche  con- 
cluded that  she  could  not  care  so  much  as  she 
did  before. 

The  words  of  the  hymn  had  brought  tears 
to  Morag's  eyes,  too.  But  then  she  quickly 
remembered  the  joyful  side  of  the  sorrowful 
story,  and  thought  of  Him  "  who  liveth,  and 
was  dead,  and  is  alive  for  evermore." 

While  the  hymn  was  being  sung,  four  old 
men,  the  elders  of  the  kirk,  walked  slowly  in, 
carrying  the  plates  of  bread  and  cups  of  wine, 
which  they  placed  reverently  on  a  white-covered 
table,  where  the  minister  now  sat,  and  which 
Blanche  supposed  must  be  the  altar  she  hal 
been  in  search  of. 

The  children  watched  with  mingled  cm-i- 


THE  KIRK  IN  THE   VILLAGE.         235 


osity  and  awe  while  the  symbols  were  passed 
to  all  who  sat  at  the  long  white  tables,  after 
the  minister  had  given  thanks  and  read  to  the 
congregation  the  Master's  words  which  He  spoke 
in  the  upper  rootn  at  Jerusalem  when  He  com- 
manded that  this  Feast  should  be  kept  by  His 
disciples  till  He  should  come  again. 

Perfect  stillness  reigned  throughout  the 
church ;  almost  every  head  was  bowed,  and 
many  a  heart  went  up  in  silent  adoring  grati- 
tude to  Him  who  had  loved  them  and  given 
Himself  for  them. 

When  the  elders  had  again  reverently  placed 
the  symbols  on  the  table  in  front  of  the  pulpit, 
the  stillness  was  broken  by  the  deep,  grave 
voice  of  the  pastor,  speaking  words  of  exhor 
tation  to  his  flock,  that  they  should  be  "  blame- 
less and  harmless,  the  sons  of  God."  A  sweet 
psalm  of  thanksgiving  was  sung,  and  then,  with 
uplifted  hands,  the  minister  prayed  that  the 
peace  of  God  might  rest  on  the  little  company ; 
and,  at  last,  the  peasants  moved  away  from  the 
long  white  tables  to  scatter  to  their  distant 
homes  in  the  Glen  ;  some  of  them  never  to 
meet  again  till  they  gather  to  the  Feast  above. 
The  children  sat  and  watched  them  as  they 
passed  slowly  out  of  the  kirk,  and  then  they, 
too,  rose  to  go.  Morag  sought  her  father  im- 


236  MORAG. 

mediately.  She  gazed  eagerly  into  his  face,  as 
if  she  expected  him  to  say  something ;  but  he 
only  pressed  her  hand,  and  turning  to  Kirsty, 
he  said  '  Good-bye,'  and  then  walked  away. 

"Lat  him  gang  hame  his  lane,  bairn," 
whispered  Kirsty,  as  she  noticed  Morag's  dis- 
appointed look,  and  her  movement  to  follow, 
when  her  father  started  to  go  home  alone. 
"I'm  thinkm'  he'll  hae  better  company  wi' 
him  than  ony  o'  us  wad  mak'  Morag,  lass." 

And  then  surveying  her  little  flock,  Kirsty 
said,  smiling  kindly,  "Noo,  bairns,  I'se  war- 
rant ye're  hun'ry  eneuch.  Jist  ye  come  doun 
til  a  quaiet  burnside  'at  I  ken  fine,  and  we'll 
hae  a  bit  o'  a  rest — and  ye'll  eat  a  piece  I  hae 
brocht  for  ye  a'." 

So  the  old  woman  led  the  way  to  a  quiet 
nook  behind  the  village,  where  the  yellowing 
birk- trees  drooped  round  a  pleasant  bit  of 
greensward,  hiding  it  from  the  dusty  highway, 
while  the  splashings  of  a  little  burn,  rolling 
merrily  among  the  white  stones,  kept  the  turf 
smooth  and  green  all  the  year  through. 

Here  Kirsty  seated  herself,  with  her  merry 
little  party  round  her.  From  underneath  her 
red  cloak  she  then  produced  a  basket  contain- 
ing some  delicious  cream-cakes,  which  she  had 
baked  on  the  previous  evening  for  this  occa- 


THE  KIRK  IN  THE   VILLAGE.  237 


sion,  and  of  which  she  now  invited  the  chil- 
dren to  partake. 

Never  did  lunch  taste  so  nice;  and  never 
was  there  such  a  pleasant  Sunday,  Blanche 
thought,  as  she  sat  at  Kirsty's  feet,  eating  her 
piece  of  oat-cake,  and  talking  to  her  old  friend. 

Morag  was  perched  on  a  stone,  with  her 
sunburnt  feet  paddling  in  the  brown  water, 
and  Kenneth  stood  watching  the  fate  of  twigs, 
meant  to  personate  his  friends,  which  he  occa- 
sionally tossed  into  the  water,  where  presently 
they  got  among  the  tiny  rapids  of  the  burn, 
some  of  them  being  finally  entangled  there, 
while  others  were  able  to  extricate  themselves 
from  their  difficulties,  and  were  borne  onwards 
to  the  river. 

Blanche  prattled  away  merrily,  as  usual, 
upon  a  variety  of  topics ;  sometimes  asking 
questions  about  the  services  of  the  day,  and 
comparing  notes  with  the  arrangements  of  the 
church  where  she  went  in  London.  Morag 
listened  with  wondering  eyes  as  the  wee  leddy 
glowingly  described  the  beautiful,  many-col- 
ored picture-windows,  the  pretty  gilded  altar, 
and  the  great  organ,  with  its  surpliced  choir. 
The  little  mountain  maiden  had  looked  upon 
the  interior  of  the  village  kirk  as  very  beauti- 
ful; but  this  church,  described  by  Blanche, 


238  MORAG. 

must  be  much  more  so :  and  Morag  began  to 
think  that  perhaps  the  Lord  Jesus  Christ  liked 
best  to  be  worshipped  in  a  fine  church  like 
that,  since  He  was  so  high  and  holy.  But, 
with  the  thought,  there  came  a  pang  of  disap- 
pointment, and,  whenever  she  had  an  opportu- 
nity, she  confided  her  trouble  to  Kirsty. 

After  pondering  a  little,  the  old  woman 
slowly  replied,  "  "Weel,  bairn,  I'll  no  say  but 
that  the  Maister  likes  a'  thing  that's  bonnie 
and  fair  to  see.  A  fine  bigget  hoose  o'  wor- 
ship, wi'  the  best  wark  that  the  fingers  o' 
man  can  mak',  canna  be  onacceptable  til  Him. 
But  I'm  thinkin',  efter  a',  the  thing  that'll 
please  Him  maist  is  to  see  ilka  hert  worship- 
pin'  Him  in  speerit  and  in  trowth, — nae 
maitter  whither  it  be  intil  a  gran'  bigget  kirk, 
or  amang  the  bracken  upo'  the  hillside,  as 
oor  folk  ance  did,  lang  syne,  Morag,  lass." 

"Oh  yes,  Kirsty,  I  know.  You  mean  in 
the  time  of  the  Covenanters,  don't  you  ? " 
said  Blanche  as  she  broke  off  a  branch  from 
the  bog-myrtle,  and  threw  it  into  the  burn, 
in  imitation  of  Kenneth's  amusement.  "  I 
know  all  about  the  Covenanters.  By  the  by, 
I've  got  a  book  in  London  with  some  rather 
nice  stories  about  them.  I  wish  I  had  it  here, 
Morag;  I  think  you  would  like  it.  The  sol 


THE  KIRK  IN  THE   VILLAGE.          239 


diers  certainly  were  very  cruel  and  rough  to 
the  people  they  found  making  a  church  among 
the  heather.  I'm  sure  I  could  never  see  why," 
continued  the  little  English  maiden,  as  she 
went  to  extricate  her  twig  from  among  the  rap- 
ids with  her  umbrella ;  because  that  twig  was 
Morag  she  said,  and  she  must  give  her  a  little 
poke  on. 

"Ay,  ay!"  said  the  old  woman  medita- 
tively. "They  were  the  dark  days  o'  oor 
kirk,  but  wha  kens  'at  they  warna  the  bricht- 
est  days,  efter  a',  i'  the  eyes  o'  Him  'at  walks 
amang  the  seven  golden  cawnal-sticks  we 
read  o'  i'  the  Revelations.  He  aye  telt  His 
kirk  nae  to  be  feared  at  onything  it  had  to 
suffer." 

"  "Weel,  Morag,  lass !  so  ye're  thinkin'  yet 
ye  wad  like  to  worship  i'  the  gran'  hoose  in 
Lou' on,  'at  the  wee  leddy  tells  o',  better  nor 
in  oor  wee  kirkie?"  said  Kirsty,  turning 
smilingly  to  the  crestfallen-  little  Morag,  as 
she  divined  her  thoughts.  "  D'ye  min'  far 
the  Laist  Supper  was  keepit — i'  the  upper 
room  in  Jerooslem  ?  Weel,  I'm  no  thinkin' 
there  could  hae  been  onything  very  braw 
intilt ;  and  yet  the  Maister  thocht  it  guid 
eneuch  for  sic  a  Feast  as  the  warl'  niver  saw." 

Blanche   did   not   remember   about   it,  so 


240  MO  RAG. 

Kirsty  handed  her  the  old  Bible,  and  she  read 
St.  Luke's  account  of  the  Last  Supper,  finish- 
ing with  the  words — "And  when  they  had 
sung  a  hymn,  they  went  to  the  Mount  of 
Olives." 

"  Why,  Kirsty,  how  funny !  That's  just 
something  like  what  we've  done  to-day.  And 
I'm  sure  the  Mount  of  Olives  couldn't  be  half 
so  nice  as  this  burn-side;  could  it,  Morag? 
I  shall  be  sure  to  remember  this  Sunday  when 
I  go  to  Holy  Communion,  Kirsty.  But  that 
will  be  ever  so  long  yet.  I've  got  to  be  con- 
firmed first,  you  know.  Miss  Prosser  says  it's 
proper  to  go  to  Holy  Communion  when  one 
is  about  seventeen ;  but,  oh  dear !  it's  a  long 
time  till  then.  I  do  wish  I  were  grown  up," 
said  Blanche,  with  a  sigh  over  the  slow  prog- 
ress of  Time. 

"Eh,  but  my  dear  lambie,  ye  maun  let 
Him  intil  yer  hert  lang  afore  that  time  comes 
roun'.  Will  ye  no  listen  til  the  Guid  Shep- 
herd's voice  callin'  ye  the  day  ?  There's  a 
hantle  o'  rough  slippy  bits  o'  life  afore  ye,  my 
bonnie  bairn,  I'm  thinkin'.  Will  ye  no  lat 
Him  tak'  ye  intil  His  arms,  and  carry  ye  safe 
through  them  a'  ? "  said  Kirsty,  as  she  looked 
fondly  at  the  little  girl. 

Blanche  did  not  reply,  but  sat  nervously 


THE  KIRK  IN  THE   VILLAGE  241 


plucking  blades  of  grass.  Presently  she  jump- 
ed up,  and  ran  to  join  Kenneth,  who  had  gone 
to  catch  the  old  cart-horse  grazing  by  the 
waterside,  to  yoke  him  in  the  cart  again,  and 
prepare  for  the  homeward  journey. 

Then  Morag  gave  Kirsty  a  shoulder  to  help 
her  from  her  low  seat  on  the  greensward  ;  and 
as  she  stooped  to  pick  up  the  basket,  she  said 
in  a  low,  eager  tone,  "  Kirsty,  werna  ye  richt 
glad  to  see  father  i'  the  kirk  the  day  ?  I 
never  thocht  he  was  comin'  tilt." 

"  Ay  was  I, — glaider  than  ye  can  ken'  o', 
bairn,"  replied  Kirsty,  her  gray  eyes  beaming 
with  joy.  "'Deed  I'm  thinkin'  there  maun 
hae  been  joy  amang  the  angels  themsels,  the 
day  when  they  saw  yer  father  sitting  at  the 
table  o'  the  Lord — a  bran'  plucked  frae  the 
burnin'.  Eh,  bairn,  ye  that's  ain  o'  His  ain 
lambs  yersel',  arna  ye  glaid  to  think  that  yer 
puir  father's  nae  latten  bide  oot  i'  the  cauld.'' 

Morag's  face  flushed  with  joy  to  hear  Kirsty 
call  her-  a  Christian,  and  she  was  going  to 
make  some  reply  when  they  heard  Blanche's 
clear,  silvery  tones  calling  them  to  come — that 
the  cart  was  all  ready  to  start. 

"  There's  that  bonnie  wee  leddy,  wi'   her 
sweet  tongue,"  said  Kirsty,  as  she  moved  to  go. 
"Dear  lamb!   may  the  Quid   Shepherd  mak' 
16 


242  MORA  G. 

goodness  and  mercy  to  follow  her  a'  the  days 
o'  her  life.  She's  a  winsome  bit  thing  as  I 
ever  set  eyes  on.  I  wad  like  riclit  weel  to  ken 
that  she  gied  her  young  hert  to  the  Lord, 
Morag.  There's  a  heap  o'  snares  and  dangers 
o'  the  great  warl'  for  the  like  o'  her.  They  tell 
me  she's  fat  they  ca'  an  heiress,  and  has  heaps 
o'  hooses  and  Ian'  in  Englan'  belongin'  til  her- 
BeP.  It  wad  be  a  richt  sair  maitter  gin  she 
were  like  the  young  man — him  ye  ken  that  we 
read  o'  i'  the  Seripter,  wha  turned  awa  frae  the 
Lord  sorrowfu'-like,  because  his  hert  was  set 
upon  his  gran'  possessions.  She  has  sic  a  han- 
tle  o'  boimie  ways  aboot  her,  and  as  sweet  a 
like  natur'  as  ever  God  made.  Ye  maun  be 
earnest  wi'  the  Lord  for  yer  wee  leddy,  Morag, 
my  lass." 

This  was  a  subject  about  which  Morag 
longed  greatly  to  talk  to  Kirsty,  though  she 
had  never  yet  been  able  to  break  through  her 
shyness  and  reserve.  She  looked  up  eagerly  in 
the  old  woman's  *f ace,  and  was  about  to  reply, 
when  Blanche  pushed  aside  the  fringing  birk- 
trees  in  search  of  them,  and  they  left  the  quiet 
green  nook,  and  turned  into  the  dusty  high- 
way. 

Many  a  time  in  after  years,  when  these  au- 
tumn days  lay  far  away  in  the  dim  haze  of  dis- 


THE  KIRK  IN  THE   VILLAGE.          243 

tance,  Morag  Dingwall  would  leave  the  beaten 
path,  if  she  chanced  to  pass  that  way,  and  wan- 
der in  among  the  whispering  birk-trees  and  the 
scented  bog-myrtle,  to  stand  and  gaze  at  this 
little  spot  of  mossy-turf.  Time  having  brought 
many  changes  for  her,  she  would  stand  pensively 
and  gaze  at  this  still  unchanged  spot,  where  the 
little  singing  burn  flowed  on  in  its  sparkling 
glee,  heedless  of  the  vanished  voices  which  had 
once  mingled  in  its  sport.  And  as  she  stood 
there  her  thoughts  would  go  slipping  back — 

"  By  the  green  bye-ways  forgotten,  to  a  stiller  circle  of 

time, 

Where  violets  faded  for  ever,  seemed  blooming  as  once 
in  their  prime," 

till  her  bonnie  wee  leddy's  voice  seemed  again 
to  ring  out  clear  and  silvery,  and  she  could  hear 
Kirsty's  low,  earnest  tones,  as  she  spoke  of  the 
Master  she  loved  so  well. 


XL 
THE  LOCH. 

COLD  north  wind  that  smelled  of  winter^ 
had  been  sweeping  through  the  glen  for 
Q).  several  days,  making  the  great  fir-forests 
<o)  creak  and  swing,  and  the  ash  and  birk- 
trees  down  in  the  hollow  shiver  and  drop  their 
leaves  at  each  gust.  The  nights  had  begun  to 
draw  in  visibly,  and  the  mornings  felt  chilly, 
and  looked  sad  and  grey.  Everything  seemed 
to  proclaim  that  the  pleasant  autumn  days  at 
Glen  Eagle  were  nearly  done.  The  purple 
bloom  had  quite  faded  from  the  heather,  and 
the  hills  began  to  look  stern  and  bleak  in  the 
cheerless  afternoon. 

"  Eed  o'er  the  forest  peers  the  setting  sun, 
The  line  of  yellow  light  dies  fast  away 
That  crown'd  the  eastern  copse  ;  and  chill  and  dun 
Falls  on  the  raoor  the  brief  October  day." 

To  two  young  hearts  that  wintry  wind  and 
its  accompaniments  sounded  dirge-like  and  sad, 


THE  LOCH,  245 

for  it  told  of  happy  days  that  had  passed  all  too 
soon.  Blanche  sighed  as  she  remembered  the 
dull  London  school-room,  and  the  measured 
promenade  in  Kensington  Park ;  and  Morag's 
lip  grew  tremulous  as  she  trotted  by  Shag's 
side  along  the  familiar  roads,  and  sighed  to 
think  how  desolate  they  would  seem  without 
his  little  mistress. 

The  shooting  party  at  the  old  castle  had  al- 
ready begun  to  break  up ;  and  the  day  for  gen- 
eral dispersion  to  warmer  latitudes  was  fixed, 
when,  one  afternoon,  Blanche  and  Morag  stood 
together  in  the  old  court-yard,  trying  to  decide 
what  would  be  the  very  pleasantest  way  of 
spending  it.  They  had  promised  to  spend  the 
last  afternoon  with  Kirsty  ;  and  now  the  last 
but  one  had  come,  and  the  hours  seemed  so 
very  precious  that  they  feared  to  "  squander 
one  wavelet  "  of  them. 

Shag  had  returned  to  his  winter  quarters 
that  morning,  not  without  a  tearful  parting  on 
the  little  girl's  side.  The  little  Shetlander 
manifested  no  emotion  on  the  occasion  ;  indeed 
Blanche  fancied  that  she  could  detect  a  merry 
twinkle  of  satisfaction  in  his  bright  eye  when  he 
recognized  his  master,  and  heard  his  native 
Gaelic,  and  he  certainly  moved  off  with  him  in 
his  readiest  trot.  Chance,  too,  hat!  been  sent 


246  MORAG. 

southward  along  with  the  first  detachment  of 
servants,  so  the  little  girls  were  able  to  make  their 
plans  irrespective  of  their  quadruped  friends. 

It  seemed  this  afternoon  as  if  the  setting  in 
of  bad  weather  was  likely  to  prove  a  false  alarm 
after  all.  The  bleak  wind  that  had  been  sweep- 
ing through  the  strath  ceased  to  blow  to-day, 
and  the  bright  sunshine  was  once  again  light- 
ing up  the  desolate  ravines,  and  sending  its 
glory  upon  the  autumnal  tints  down  among 
the  hollows.  Never  had  the  Glen  looked  more 
lovely,  Blanche  thought,  as  her  eye  wandered 
over  the  now  familiar  landscape.  The  loch  lay 
shining  in  the  sunlight,  like  a  looking-glass 
framed  in  the  heather ;  and  as  she  looked  across 
to  it,  Blanche  suddenly  remembered  that  she 
had  promised  to  go  there  before  she  left  to 
find  a  water  lily,  as  a  model  for  one  of  a  group 
of  wax  flowers  which  Miss  Prosser  had  been 
making  during  these  holiday  afternoons,  while 
her  pupil  was  rambling  among  the  hills. 

It  was  a  satisfaction  to  be  able  to  find  an 
object  for  the  walk,  and  the  girls  set  out  briskly 
along  the  winding  path  which  led  from  the 
castle  grounds  to  the  moorland  road.  The 
drooping  birk  boughs  were  quite  golden  now, 
and  the  rowan  berries  a  coral  red.  Blanche 
kept  plucking  them  as  she  went  cheerily  along, 


THE  LOCH.  247 

warbling  in  the  sunshine.  Feeling  very  happy 
for  the  present,  she  did  not  allow  the  shadow 
of  the  coming  separation  to  throw  its  gloom 
over  her,  as  it  seemed  to  do  with  the  grave 
little  Morag,  who  walked  silently  by  her  side. 
Everything  looked  bright  and  smiling,  and  her 
wee  leddy  appeared  in  one  of  her  most  joyous 
moods ;  and  Morag  wondered  why  she  should 
feel  so  sad,  that  the  surrounding  brightness 
seemed  to  jar  upon  her,  rather  than  chase  away 
her  sorrowful  mood.  And  as  she  listened  to 
the  little  birds,  who  took  up  the  refrain  of 
Blanche's  warblings,  and  merrily  chirruped 
odes  of  welcome  to  the  returned  sun,  Morag 
was  reminded  of  a  sentiment  expressed  in  one 
of  Kirsty's  songs.  She  had  never  understood 
the  reason  of  its  saying — 

"  Why  will  ye  chant,  ye  little  birds, 
And  I  sae  weary,  f u'  o'  care  ?  " 

and  had  once  remarked  to  her  old  friend  that 
"  even  though  a  body  was  feelin'  some  sad  like, 
it  wad  surely  do  their  hearts  guid  to  hear  the 
birdies  sing  sic  bonnie." 

But  Kirsty  had  smiled  and  said,  "'Deed, 
bairn,  but  ye' re  wrang  there,  I'm  thinkin'. 
No  a'  the  birdies'  bonnie  sangs,  nor  a'  the  sweet 
warks  o1  God,  can  pit  glaidness  intil  broken, 
Borrowfu'  herts.  Naething  can  do  that,  I'm 


248  MO  RAG. 

thinkin',  excep'  a  sicht  o'  His  ain  face,  and  a 
sotin'  o'  His  ain  voice.  I've  whiles  thoclit  'at 
the  poet-chiel'  wha  made  the  bit  sang  maim 
hae  kent  fine  what  it  was  to  hae  a  richt  sorrow- 
f  u'  sair  hert  mony  a  day ; "  and  Morag  thought 
that  she  was  able,  from  to-day's  experience,  to 
catch  a  glimpse  of  the  poet's  meaning. 

Presently  Blanche  caught  the  infectious 
sadness  of  her  friend,  and  became  quiet  and 
meditative  also.  Flinging  away  her  bunches 
of  rowan  berries,  she  came  and  put  her  arms 
round  Morag's  sunburnt  neck,  saying,  gently, 
"  You  won't  quite  forget  me,  Morag,  dear, 
when  I'm  far  away,  will  yon  ?  " 

A  great  glow  of  Jove  rose  in  Morag's  heart 
as  she  felt  the  soft  curls  about  her  neck  and 
Blanche's  lips  on  her  cheek.  She  felt  as  if  she 
could  have  died  for  her  bonnie  wee  leddy  then 
and  there,  but  she  only  answered  quietly,  "  I'm. 
no  thinkin'  we'll  forget  ye  that  ready.  Kirsty 
and  me  will  be  min'in'  on  ye  ilka  day.  But 
I'm  some  feared  whiles  that  ye'll  no  be  min'in' 
o'  the  Glen  when  ye  gang  back  to  the  gran' 
inuckle  toun  ye  bide  in." 

There  was  something  else  which  Morag 
longed  to  say  to  Blanche  that  afternoon,  and 
many  times  before,  but  she  had  never  been  able 
to  summon  up  courage  to  speak  about  it.  She 


THE  LOCH.  249 


wished  to  tell  her  of  the  new  feeling  that  had 
been  taking  possession  of  her  heart,  and  which 
she  longed  to  share  with  Blanche. 

Since  those  first  days  of  wonder  and  per- 
plexity— which  hearing  the  hymn  in  the  fir- 
wood  caused — Morag  had  never  talked  to  the 
little  English  girl  of  those  things  which  had 
been  slowly  sinking  into  her  heart.  Kirsty  had 
been  her  Evangelist,  Morag  sometimes  thought, 
as  she  read  the  "  Pilgrim's  Progress."  It  was 
she  who  had  pointed  out  the  way  to  the  Wicket 
Gate  M*hen  the  little  girl  was  groping  blindly ; 
and  to  her  alone  could  she  speak  freely  as  yet. 
But  now  that  she  had  come  to  understand  what 
a  real,  living,  listening  Friend  the  Lord  Jesus 
Christ  is,  though  unseen  by  earthly  eyes,  she 
longed  intensely  to  share  this  new  faith  and 
hope  with  her  wee  leddy,  whom  she  loved  so 
well.  And  since  Kirsty  had  hinted  at  the 
many  dangers  which  the  world  beyond  the 
mountains  mLht  have  in  store  for  her  now 
guileless  friend,  she  longed  the  more  to  ask  her 
to  take  this  unseen  Friend  for  her  Saviour  and 
Guide.  But  somehow  the  opportunity  passed, 
and  they  had  reached  the  loch  before  Morag 
could  find  words  to  say  what  she  wanted. 

Blanche  did  not  like  the  sombre  mood 
which  appeared  to  have  fallen  on  them  both  ; 


250  MORAG. 

and  seemed  bent  on  talking  herself  and  her 
friend  into  a  gayer  mood  by  castle-building. 
She  began  to  prattle  about  all  that  she  meant 
to  do  next  summer,  of  the  many  ambitious 
feats  in  the  way  of  climbing  which  she  meant 
to  perform,  and  of  the  familiar  places — written 
over  with  memories  of  those  pleasant  autumn 
days  which  they  would  have  to  revisit. 

The  yellow  afternoon  sun  was  shining  on 
the  rippling  water  of  the  loch,  and  the  blue 
sky,  with  numberless  white  fleecy  clouds,  lay 
like  heaps  of  snow  reflected  on  its  clear  depths. 
On  the  soft  mossy  banks,  sloping  down  to  the 
loch,  there  grew  masses  of  scented  bog  myrtle, 
and  alder  bushes,  while  yellow  flags  and  rushes 
fringed  the  edge  of  the  water.  The  broad 
dark  leaves  of  the  water-lilies  rocked  about  in 
tangled  masses  on  the  loch ;  but  Blanche  looked 
in  vain  for  a  lily  to  take  to  Miss  Prosser.  At 
last  she  gave  up  the  search,  and  throwing  her- 
self lazily  on  the  sunny  bank,  she  lay  watching 
the  circles  made  by  the  trouts  in  pursuit  of 
flies  hovering  upon  the  surface  of  the  water. 

Morag  meanwhile  spied  a  wild  rose-bush  at 
some  distance  off,  on  the  bank,  and  she  clam- 
bered up  to  gather  the  brilliant  scarlet  berries ; 
and  Blanche  presently  started  off  again  on  a 
fresh  search  after  the  water-lily ;  for  she  was 


THE  LOCH.  251 


unwilling  to  return  from  her  last  expedition 
without  the  flower  which  she  had  promised  to 
find.  At  last  she  was  rewarded  by  discovering 
a  beautiful  lily  lying  hidden  away  among  the 
dark  leaves.  It  seemed  to  be  at  a  convenient 
stretching  distance,  so  she  knelt  down  on  the 
moss,  and  put  out  her  hand  to  grasp  it,  which 
she  did  with  difficulty,  for  it  was  further  off 
than  she  had  thought.  She  was  about  to  spring 
back  in  triumph  at  having  captured  the  prize, 
when  she  felt  the  ground  suddenly  give  way, 
and  in  spite  of  her  efforts  to  save  herself,  she 
went  slipping  into  the  water — down,  down 
among  the  roots  of  the  floating  lilies. 

In  her  terror  she  gave  a  plunge  to  try  to 
grasp  some  reeds  growing  near  and  to  regain 
her  footing,  but  she  only  landed  herself  fur- 
ther from  the  bank  than  before.  All  happened 
in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye — so  quickly  that 
Blanche  raised  no  cry.  But  now  that  all  foot- 
ing was  gone,  and  she  felt  herself  being  fast 
submerged  in  the  deep  water,  she  shrieked  with 
terror,  and  threw  up  her  arms  in  wild  dismay. 

Morag  was  at  the  water's  brink  in  a  mo- 
ment ;  but  she  only  came  in  time  to  see  the 
ripples  closing  over  Blanche's  golden  crown. 
She  stretched  out  her  hands  towards  her,  but 
saw  in  a  moment  that  she  had  been  carried 


252  MORAG. 

too  far  out  for  any  such  help.  Morag  looked 
round  in  silent  despair,  for  she  could  not  swim, 
and  she  had  presence  of  mind  to  realise  .that 
it  would  be  impossible  otherwise  to  save  her; 
but  she  could  not  let  her  bonnie  wee  leddy  die 
all  alone  there,  and,  in  an  instant  two  little 
girls,  instead  of  one,  were  struggling  for  life 
among  the  rocking  lily-leaves.  Morag's  wild 
plunge  brought  her  alongside  Blanche,  who, 
with  her  remaining  consciousness  roused,, 
clutched  her  arm,  but  very  soon  both  the  girls 
were  sinking,  sinking,  and  the  cruel  water  clo- 
sing over  them ! 

Once  again  Blanche's  hands  were  thrown 
up,  and  her  closing  eyes  looked  on  the  calm 
afternoon  scene — the  sun-lighted  grass,  with 
the  scarlet  berries  scattered  over  it,  dropped  by 
Morag  in  her  wild  plunge  towards  the  bank — 
once  again,  and  then — 

But  what  is  that  rustling  among  the  alder 
bushes,  and  these  sounds  of  heavy  breathing 
after  a  hard  race  ? 

Kenneth  Macpherson  stands  on  the  grassy 
bank  just  as  the  long,  floating  curls  went  under 
the  rippling  water,  and  Blanche  Clifford's  last 
struggle  for  life  seemed  over.  She  had  loosened 
her  hold  on  Morag's  arm,  who  now  began  to 
make  convulsive  efforts  to  find  her  again,  as 


THE  LOCH,  253 

she  was  drifted  away.  In  a  moment,  Kenneth's 
arm  was  round  Blanche,  and  with  a  few  vigor- 
ous strokes  he  laid  her  on  the  bank — or  all  that 
remained  of  her,  for  his  hasty  glance  gave  him 
little  hope  that  life  was  there. 

Morag's  consciousness  partially  returned  as 
soon  as  he  grasped  her,  and  very  soon  she,  too, 
was  laid  on  the  grass  by  the  panting  Kenneth. 
But  the  most  difficult  part  of  his  work  was  yet 
to  come,  he  thought,  as  he  glanced  at  the  mo- 
tionless figures  on  the  turf.  Kneeling  down, 
he  began  to  chafe  Blanche's  cold  hands,  and 
vainly  tried  to  detect  some  sign  of  life.  Pres- 
ently Morag  got  up  from  the  turf,  and  stood 
shivering,  gazing  blankly  round,  as  if  she  were 
at  a  loss  to  know  what  had  happened.  The 
sight  of  the  water  recalled  everything  with  ter- 
i\bb  vividness ;  she  looked  wildly  round  in 
i  earch  of  Blanche,  and  saw  her  lying  pale  and 
motionless  on  the  bank,  her  fair  curls  all  drench- 
ed and  tangled.  With  a  cry  of  agony,  Morag 
sprang  to  her  side. 

"  I  don't  think  she's  dead,  Morag ! "  whis- 
pered Kenneth,  who  still  knelt  beside  her. 
"  Do  you  think  y<3u  are  able  to  stay  here  while 
I  go  to  the  castle  to  get  help  ?  But  I'm  afraid 
you  must  be  very  wet  and  tired,  yourself,  poor 
Morag !  " 


254  MORAG. 

"  Ob,  rin  !  rin  to  the  castle !  I'll  easy  bide 
wi'  her !  My  bonnie  wee  ledcty,  speak  but  ae 
word  til  me  !  "  And  Morag  bent  eagerly  over 
her  ;  but  the  lips  were  silent  and  bloodless,  and 
the  eyes  gave  no  sign  of  life.  It  was  terrible  to 
be  so  helpless  to  do  anything,  Morag  thought, 
as  she  kept  chafing  the  cold  fingers,  while,  in 
a  low  monotone  of  agony,  she  prayed  that  her 
wee  leddy  might  come  back  to  life  again. 

Meanwhile,  Kenneth  flew  like  lightning  to 
the  castle.  On  the  way,  he  met  the  wearied 
remnant  of  the  shooting  party  sauntering 
homewards,  after  their  last  day  at  the  moors, 
all  unconscious  of  what  Had  been  going  on  at 
the  loch.  Their  pace  was  quickly  changed  as 
they  hurried  towards  the  water,  while  servants 
followed  with  a  supply  of  blankets  and  all  other 
necessaries.  Mr.  Clifford  hardly  listened  to 
Kenneth's  incoherent  words,  when,  flinging 
down  his  gun,  he  hurried  towards  the  bank 
where  his  child  lay  still  unconscious. 

"  Blanche,  darling,  speak  to  me  !  "  he  cried, 
lifting  her  in  his  arms.  But  the  head  fell  back, 
and  the  motionless  frame  gave  no  sign  of  life. 
The  dearly  won  trophy,  the  water-lity,  dropped 
at  last  from  the  unclasping  fingers,  and  the 
white  arm  hung  listlessly  down. 

All  restoratives  were  eagerly  tried,  and  at 


THE  LOCH.  255 


length  the  anxious  group  on  the  greensward 
fancied  they  could  detect  a  slight  quiver 
through  the  frame,  and  Blanche  slowly  re- 
turned from  the  borders  of  the  far-off  Land, 
as  the  last  rays  of  the  evening  sun  were 
gleaming  upon  the  loch.  The  blue  eyes 
opened  wearily,  and  she  glanced  shiveringly 
round,  evidently  unconscious  of  where  she 
was. 

"  Morag,  Morag !  don't  let  me  go !  "  she 
cried,  with  a  look  of  terror.  "  The  river  is  so 
dark  and  cold !  Do  you  not  see  the  Golden 
City  yet,  Morag  ?  " 

"  Hush,  Blanche,  darling !  You  must  not 
think  of  the  river  any  more.  You  are  safe  in 
papa's  arms  now  !  " 

Gradually  Blanche  returned  to  conscious- 
ness, and  remembered  what  had  happened. 
After  a  bewildered  glance  at  the  group  on 
the  turf,  and  Miss  Prosser  seated  at  her  side, 
she  began  to  understand  what  had  brought 
them  all  there.  Presently  she  sat  up  among 
the  blankets  in  which  she  was  imbedded,  and 
began  to  look  eagerly  round  for  one  familiar 
face  which  she  did  not  see.  "  Morag ! "  she 
whispered,  looking  inquiringly  at  her  papa, 
and  then  she  glanced  towards  the  rippling 
water,  all  tinged  with  the  gorgeous  sunset  hues, 


256  MORAG. 

and  there  she  saw  floating  the  wreath  of 
rowan  berries  which  she  had  twined  among 
Morag's  black  locks  that  afternoon.  "  Morag  ! 
where  is  she  ?  Oh,  surely  not  there  ?  She 
jumped  into  the  loch !  I  remember  seeing 
her !  I  remember  it  all  now  ! "  and  Blanche 
clasped  her  hands,  and  looked  wildly  into  her 
father's  face. 

Morag  was,  meanwhile,  seated  farther  up 
on  the  bank,  where  she  could  catch  a  glimpse 
of  her  friend,  though  she  could  not  be  seen 
by  her.  With  her  usual  shyness,  she  had 
fled  when  the  castle  party  surrounded  Blanche ; 
and  hiding  behind  some  alder  bushes,  she 
watched  with  intense  anxiety  the  movements 
within  the  circle.  But  when,  at  last,  she 
heard  her  own  name  called  by  Blanche,  her 
heart  gave  a  great  throb  of  joy,  and  in  an  in- 
stant she  was  It  her  wee  leddy's  side. 

"  Morag,  darling !  it's  all  right  then  ?  I 
never  felt  so  happy  in  my  life,"  said  Blanche, 
clasping  the  little  brown  hands  in  her  trem- 
bling fingers.  "  Oh,  I  was  so  frightened  when 
I  woke  up.  I  couldn't  see  you  anywhere,  and 
felt  almost  afraid  to  ask,  when  I  saw  the  rowan- 
wreath  floating  about.  Oh !  it  was  too  terri- 
ble. But  do  tell  me,  how  did  it  all  happen? 
how  did  we  ever  get  out  of  the  water  ?  " 


THE  LOCH.  257 

"  We  were  droonin',  ye  ken,  leddy  ;  but 
Kenneth  cam'  runnin'  doun  the  bank  frae 
the  peat-moss,  and  took's  baith  oot  o'  the 
water." 

"  Oh  yes  ;  by  the  way,  where  has  the  brave 
fellow  gone  ? "  asked  Mr.  Clifford,  getting  up 
from  the  turf,  where  he  had  been  kneeling 
by  his  daughter's  side,  and  looking  about  for 
Kenneth. 

"But  Kenneth — I  don't  understand,"  said 
Blanche,  looking  perplexed.  "  He  wasn't  with 
us,  Morag.  How  did  he  ever  come  here  ? " 

It  was,  indeed,  a  strange  coincidence  that 
Kenneth  Macpherson  should  have  been  within 
sight  and  hearing  of  the  loch  this  afternoon. 
It  was  the  first  time  he  had  been  so  near  it 
since  he  came  to  Glen  Eagle.  He  had  come  to 
a  peat-moss  in  the  vicinity  to»lay  in  Kirsty's 
winter  supply  of  peats,  having  borrowed  Neil's 
cart  for  the  occasion.  Early  in  the  afternoon 
he  noticed  the  little  girls  pass  on  their  way  to 
the  loch,  as  he  conjectured.  He  stopped  his 
work  for  a  moment  to  watch  them,  and  wished 
he  had  been  a  little  nearer,  so  that  they  might 
have  spoken  to  him,  as  he  heard  Blanche's  ring- 
ing silvery  tones  through  the  keen  air.  And 
not  long  afterwards,  when  he  heard  the  wild 
shriek  from  the  loch,  he  thought  he  recognized 
17 


258  MO  RAG. 

the  voice,  and  leaving  cart  and  peats,  bounded 
off  in  the  direction  from  which  it  came,  reach- 
ing the  spot,  as  we  know,  just  in  time  to  rescue 
the  little  girls.  After  his  return  from  the  cas- 
t  e  he  had  hovered  near  the  watching  group 
till  he  satisfied  himself  that  Blanche  had  recov- 
ered, and  then  he  went  again  to  work  at  the 
peat-moss. 

Morag  had  watched  him  slip  quietly  back 
to  his  work,  unheeding  of  thanks  or  praise ;  and 
from  that  hour  he  became  enshrined  as  a  hero 
in  her  little  woman's  heart.  She  longed  to  see 
the  joy  and  pride  which  would  be  reflected  in 
Kirsty's  gray  eyes  when  she  heard  of  her  grand- 
son's share  in  the  doings  of  this  afternoon  ;  and 
she  felt  a  glow  of  pride  when  Mr.  Clifford  called 
him  a  brave  fellow. 

As  soon  as  Blanche  had  recovered  suffi- 
ciently, they  prepared  to  carry  her  away  from 
the  scene  of  the  catastrophe.  She  was  looking 
as  pale  as  the  water-lily  lying  on  the  turf  beside 
her.  Catching  a  glimpse  of  it,  she  picked  it  up, 
and  handed  it  to  Miss  Prosser,  saying,  "  You 
see  I  have  got  it  for  you.  Isn't  it  a  beauty  ? 
It  was  the  very  last  one  I  could  find  ;  I  remem- 
ber holding  it  so  tight  when  I  was  in  the  deep 
water.  I  suppose  Kenneth  fished  it  up  with 
me,"  she  added,  smiling,  as  Miss  Prosser  took 


THE  LOCH.  259 

the  dearly-won  trophy  from  the  trembling  lin- 
gers, and  kissed  her  little  pupil  with  more  ten- 
derness than  she  was  wont  to  do. 

Poor  little  Morag  watched  her  bonnie  wee 
leddy  being  borne  away  to  the  castle  with  tho 
desolate  feeling  of  being  left  out  in  the  cold. 
The  reaction  had  come  after  the  intense  experi- 
ences of  these  past  hours.  She  stood  watching 
the  glad  procession  set  out  with  wistful  eyes, 
and  then  she  moved  away  in  the  direction  of 
her  solitary  home,  for  she  felt  cold  and  weary 
enough  now.  Her  father  had  gone  to  the  ken- 
nels before  the  shooting  party  heard  of  the  acci- 
dent, and  he  now  sat  at  home  in  the  hut,  won- 
dering what  had  become  of  his  little  daughter. 

"  Papa,  I  remember  it  all  now!"  exclaimed 
Blanche,  who  had  been  lying  pale  and  medita- 
tive in  her  father's  arms,  as  he  carried  her 
home.  "  I  slipped  into  the  water  just  as  I  got 
hold  of  the  lily.  Morag  wasn't  in  sight,  I  re- 
member, and  I  got  very  frightened  when  I  felt 
the  dark  water  coming  all  round,  and  carry- 
ing rne  quite  away  from  the  bank.  I  recolJect 
hearing  myself  scream  quite  well,  and  then, 
in  a  minute,  Morag  stood  on  the  bank,  stretch- 
ing out  her  hand ;  but  I  couldn't  reach  it,  and 
only  got  further  away  than  before.  And  just 
as  the  water  was  going  right  over  me,  I  s-aw 


260  MORAG. 

Morag  jump  in,  and  then  I  don't  remember 
anything  more.  Dear,  brave  Morag !  it  was 
just  like  her,  wasn't  it,  papa?  I'm  sure  I 
should  have  been  much  too  frightened  to  jump 
into  the  water.  But  she  must  be  as  cold  and 
tired  as  I  was,  papa!  Where  are  you,  Morag?" 
asked  Blanche,  looking  round. 

"Yes,  to  be  sure,  pussy;  we  should  have 
thought  of  that  before.  You  have  been  absorb- 
ing all  our  attention  in  a  such  troublesome  man- 
ner, you  see.  Where  are  you,  little  black-eyes  ? 
I  saw  her  flitting  about  quite  briskly  a  little 
while  ago,  as  if  the  ducking  in  her  native  waters 
had  not  affected  her  unpleasantly.  I  declare,  if 
she  hasn't  redeveloped  her  propensity  for  scud- 
ding, Blanchie!  She's  nowhere  to  be  seen,'' 
said  Mr.  Clifford,  glancing  round  the  group. 

Blanche  was  so  distressed  at  the  disappear- 
ance of  her  friend,  that  one  of  the  servants 
was  despatched  in  quest  of  her,  and  the  little 
girl  being  presently  recaptured,  she  was,  in 
spite  of  her  entreaties,  carried  off  to  the  cas- 
tle, and  put  under  the  old  housekeeper's  care. 

She  was  made  quite  a  lion  of  in  the  ser- 
vants' hall  that  evening,  though  she  was  some- 
what at  a  loss  to  understand  why.  She  re- 
counted, quite  eloquently  for  her,  how  Kirsty's 
grandson  had  saved  them  both,  and  seemed 


THE  LOCH.  261 

much  surprised  when  somebody  commended 
her  for  her  efforts  to  save  their  little  mistress ; 
for  it  never  occurred  to  her  that  any  other 
course  would  have  been  possible  than  to  die 
with  her  bonnie  wee  leddy. 

Ellis  had  never  taken  the  little  native  to  her 
heart,  in  spite  of  her  little  mistress'  frequent 
triumphant  reminders  that  the  ragged  maiden 
of  the  fir-wood  had  proved  no  dangerous  gypsy 
after  all ;  but  to-night  she  was  most  gracious, 
patting  the  trembling  little  Morag  condescend- 
ingly on  the  head,  as  she  led  the  way  to 
Blanche's  room,  where  Morag  was  summoned 
in  the  course  of  the  evening. 

The  little  bare,  weather-beaten  feet  trod 
much  more  uneasily  on  the  soft  carpet  than 
among  the  bracken ;  and  the  friendship  which 
had  sprung  up  and  flourished  among  the  woods 
and  braes  did  not  seem  likely  to  thrive  in  the 
atmosphere  of  a  luxuriantly-furnished  apart- 
ment. Blanche  was  lying  on  the  sofa,  wrap- 
ped in  a  blue  flannel  dressing-gown,  looking 
very  feeble  and  subdued,  \vhen  Morag  entered 
the  room.  She  looked  wistfully  at  her  little 
mountain  friend,  but  did  not  speak,  and  Miss 
Prosser,  who  was  seated  at  her  pupil's  side, 
noted  the  mutual  shyness,  and  considerately 
withdrew. 


262  MORAG. 

Beckoning  to  Morag  to  come  and  sit  beside 
her,  she  took  the  little  brown  hand  into  her 
fluttering  fingers,  and  said,  nervously,  "  Morag, 
dear,  I  want  so  much  to  speak  to  you.  Do 
you  know,  though  it  was  only  such  a  moment 
of  time,  I  thought  so  much  when  I  felt  going 
down,  down  among  the  dark  moving  water  all 
alone.  And  you  left  the  pleasant,  sunny  turf, 
and  came  to  drown  with  me  in  that  dreadful 
water.  How  could  you  venture,  Morag?  It 
was  too  brave  and  kind!"  and  Blanche's  lip 
quivered. 

Morag  was  going  to  interrupt  her,  but  she 
went  on.  "  Do  you  remember  that  chapter  of 
the  Bible  we  were  reading  to  Kirsty  yesterday, 
Morag  ?  I'm  afraid  I  didn't  care  much  for  it 
at  the  time,  and  only  read  it  to  please  her ;  but 
since  I've  been  lying  here,  I  seem  to  hear  one 
verse  of  it  always.  Wasn't  it  Jesus  Christ  who 
said  that  it  was  the  greatest  love  to  lay  down 
one's  life  for  a  friend?  Morag,  that's  what 
you  did  for  me.  I  saw  you  do  it.  Oh,  Morag, 
when  I  awoke  and  saw  the  rowan-wreath  Boat- 
ing about  in  the  water,  and  you  not  anywhere 
to  be  seen ! "  and  Blanche  covered  her  face  and 
sobbed. 

All   Morag's    shyness    seemed   to   vanish 
when  she  had  to  take  the  part  of  a  comforter. 


THE  LOCH.  263 

The  little  brown  arm  was  quietly  slipped 
round  the  bent  head,  and  she  whispered 
gently,  "  Ye  mustna  think  nothing  o'  my  slip- 
pin'  in  efter  ye  til  the  water.  I  couldna  hae 
bidden  ahin'  for  onything.  But  ye  see  if  it 
hadna  been  for  Kenneth,  none  o'  us  would  hae 
been  gotten  oot  o'  the  loch."  And  after  a 
pause  she  continued,  "I'm  no  thinkin'  that 
word  frae  the  Bible  would  even  mean  the  like 
o'  Kenneth,  though.  Will  it  no  be  meanin' 
the  Lord  Jesus  Christ,  that  died  o'  the  green 
hill, — as  ye're  bonnie  hymn  speaks  o'  ?  I  weel 
min'  the  day  I  heard  it;"  and  then  she  added, 
with  an  evident  effort,  "and  I've  aye  been 
wantin'  to  tell  ye  that  I  love  Him  richt  weel 
myseP  noo,  sin'  yon  day  i'  the  fir-wood." 

"  And  is  it  because  you  love  the  Lord  Jesus 
so  much  that  you  were  so  brave  at  the  loch  to- 
day, Morag  ? "  said  Blanche,  looking  question- 
ingly  at  her. 

"  I'm  no  thinkin'  that  exactly,"  replied  Mo- 
rag,  slowly,  as  if  she  were  pondering  her  mo- 
tives; "I'm  thinkin'  it  was  because  I  looed 
you,  little  leddy,  and  forby,  life  wotildna  hae 
seemed  muckle  worth  gin  ye  had  been  awa." 

"  D'ye  min'  the  bonnie  picter  oot  o'  the 
'  Pilgrim's  Progress  ? '  I  was  jist  thinkin'  to 
mysel',  on  my  road  hame  the  nicht,  that  gin 


264  MO  RAG. 

Kenneth  hadna  come,  we  would  hae  gotten 
thegither  to  the  bonnie  toon  lyin'  i'  the  sun, — 
like  the  droonin'  folk  i'  the  picter,"  and  Morag 
looked  at  Blanche,  and  smiled  brightly. 

The  little  girl  shook  her  head  sadly.  "  You 
would  have  gone  to  the  Golden  City,  Morag ; 
but  I'm  afraid  I  shouldn't.  You  see  I  never 
really  thought  I  should  like  to  go  to  heaven. 
It  seemed  to  me  that  it  would  be  so  much  nicer 
to  stay  always  here,  in  this  beautiful  world 
we  know  and  love,  than  to  be  sent  away  to 
an  unknown  land.  Do  you  know,  Morag,  I 
thought  of  all  that  to-day,  as  I  looked  at  the 
pleasant  sunny  banks  of  the  loch,  just  before 
the  cruel,  creeping  water  covered  me  all  up. 
It  made  me  feel  so  terrified." 

There  was  silence  for  a  few  minutes.  At 
last,  Morag  said,  quietly — 

"  But  I'm  no  thinkin'  heaven  isna  a  kin'  o' 
land  we  dinna  ken,  when  Jesus  is  there  Him- 
sel',  waitin'  for  us.  He  made  ilka  body  so 
happy-like  when  he  was  i'  the  warl' ;  and 
though  we  canna  see  Him,  I'm  thinkin'  He's 
jist  the  same  yet.  When  we  get  til  the  golden 
gates  o'  the  City  we  read  aboot  i'  the  hinner 
en'  o'  the  Bible,  he  wad  jist  be  puttin'  His 
han's  on  us,  and  sayin'  something  kin'  like, 
and  we  wad  be  feelin'  at  hame.  He  speaks 


THE  LOCH.  265 

that  plain  like  til  folk  here,  tho'  we  canna  see 
Him.  I  dinna  think  I  would  be  feared  to 
gang  til  get  a  sicht  o'  Him." 

There  was  a  light  in  Morag's  eye  that 
made  Blanche  feel  she  was  speaking  of  what 
she  knew. 

"  He  never  speaks  to  me  like  that,  Morag. 
I  don't  think  He  can  love  me  at  all.  I'm  sure 
He  doesn't.  I'm  so  dreadfully  wicked.  Be- 
sides, I'm  afraid  I  never  cared  to  know  about 
Him  at  all ;  indeed,  I  never  felt  as  if  He  were 
a  real  person." 

"I  thocht  that  ance,  till  Kirsty  telt  me 
different,"  said  Morag,  interrupting  her.  "  I'm 
weel  sure  He  looes  you  richt  weel,  leddy.  I'm 
thinking  He's  no  far  frae  us,  jist  this  minute. 
Will  ye  no  speak  til  Him  yersel'  in  yer  ain 
bonnie  words,  leddy  ?  I'm  thinkin'  He  would 
like  weel  fo  be  listening  til  the  like  o'  you," 
whispered  Morag,  eagerly,  as  she  knelt  by 
Blanche's  side. 

"  O  Morag !  do  you  mean  that  I  should 
pray  in  my  very  own  words?  I  couldn't, 
indeed.  Of  course  I  say  my  prayers  every 
night — one  of  the  Collects  generally." 

"  I  dinna  ken  what  a  Collec'  is,"  replied 
Morag,  looking  perplexed. 

"  Oh,  well,  it's  a  written  prayer  we  use  in 


2G6  MORAG. 

church.  If  you'll  bring  that  case  of  books  to 
me,  I'll  show  it  to  you." 

Blanche  turned  the  leaves  of  her  daintily- 
bound  Church  Service,  and  read  some  of  its 
strong,  thrilling  words  of  prayer,  which  rang 
like  the  music  of  a  psalm  in  Morag's  ear. 

"  That's  jist  terrible  bonnie — a  hantle  bon- 
nier than  onything  a  body  would  make  up 
themsels.  I  like  richt  weel  to  hear't.  Would 
ye  jist  read  a  bit  more,  gin  ye  please  ? "  and 
the  little  girl's  face  glowed  with  pleasure  as 
she  sat  listening. 

After  looking  meditatively  into  the  fire  for 
some  minutes  when  Blanche  had  finished  read- 
ing, she  said,  slowly — 

"  Ay,  that  is  richt  bonnie ;  and  I'm  think- 
in'  sic  sweet  words  maun  please  Him  weel. 
But  there's  jist  something  mak's  me  think  He 
wad  like  a  body's  verra  ain  words 'best  o'  a'. 
Now,  d'ye  no  think,  gin  ye  was  wantin' .  ony- 
thing frae  yer  father,  it  wouldna  be  sic  nateral 
like  to  read  it  oot  o'  a  bonnie  buik  as  jist  to  pit 
your  arms  roun'  his  neck,  and  plead  wi'  him  a 
bittie,  as  I've  seen  you  do,  whiles, — and  ye 
ken  fine  ye  aye  get  the  thing  ye're  wantin','' 
she  added,  smiling  archly;  and  then  she  con- 
tinued— "Weel,  I'm  thinkin'  that  maun  be 
what  He  would  hae  us  to  do,  frae  what  He 


THE  LOCH.  267 


says  Hirnsel'.  "  D'ye  no  think  that  yersel', 
leddy  ? "  asked  Morag,  looking  earnestly  into 
Blanche's  troubled  face. 

"I  think  I  understand  what  you  mean, 
Morag ;  but  I  never  thought  of  speaking  to 
Jesus  Christ  like  that.  "Why  did  you  not  ever 
tell  me  that  you  did  till  to-night,  Morag  ? " 
asked  Blanche,  reproachfully.  "  You  remem- 
ber you  wanted  so  very  much  to  know  all 
about  Him  when  I  knew  you  first.  Dear  me, 
Morag,  you  must  have  found  out  a  great  deal 
about  these  things  since  then,"  added  Blanche, 
regretfully. 

"  Ay  have  I,"  replied  Morag,  smiling  bright- 
ly. "  But  it  was  frae  yersel'  I  first  heard  His 
name.  D'ye  mind  on't,  leddy  ?  I'm  thinkin' 
I'll  min'  upon't  as  lang  as  I  live — and  maybe 
efter-hin.  Kirsty  was  jist  sayin'  yestreen, 
she's  richt  sure  folk  dosna  forget  the  travellin' 
days  when  they  win  safe  hame  til  the  Golden 
City." 

"  Oh !  I  remember.  You  mean  that  morn- 
ing when  I  was  gathering  cones  in  the  fir- 
wood,  and  began  singing  a  hymn.  I  had  been 
singing  for  a  long  time  before  I  looked  up  and 
saw  you.  I  was  so  astonished  to  see  you  lean- 
ing against  the  tree,  and  so  glad  that  I  had 
found  you  again,"  and  Blanche  laughed  4ner 


268  MORAG. 

rily  at  the  recollection  of  the  scene.  Presently 
she  became  grave  again,  and  taking  Morag's 
hand  in  hers,  she  added,  in  a  low  tone — "  But, 
Morag,  you  must  not  think  I  was  singing  about 
Jesus  Christ  because  I  loved  Him,  or  cared  for 
the  words  of  the  hymn.  I  think  I  chose  them 
because  they  seemed  to  suit  the  air  I  wanted 
to  sing.  I  think  I  do  care  now,  though.  O 
Morag !  you  might  speak  to  Jesus  Christ  your- 
self just  now,  and  I'll  try,  too.  Perhaps  he 
will  listen  to  us  both.  Do  ask  Him  to  teach 
me  to  be  good  when  I  go  back  to  London.  I 
used  to  be  so  naughty  often — you've  no  idea. 
Do,  please,"  added  Blanche  beseechingly,  for 
she  knew  Morag's  extreme  shyness,  and  feared 
that  her  request  might  not  be  complied  with. 

The  little  mountain  maiden  seemed  quite 
lifted  out  of  her  reserve.  At  once  the  dark 
tangled  locks  went  down  among  the  bright 
chintz  cushions,  and  Morag  spoke  in  low,  rev- 
erent tones  to  the  listening  friend  she  had 
come  to  know  and  love  during  these  autumn 
days. 

Morag  was  still  kneeling  when  Ellis  came 
bustling  into  the  room  to  say  that  the  keeper 
had  come  to  fetch  his  little  daughter.  Blanche 
looked  much  disappointed.  The  time  had 
passed  so  quickly,  and  there  was  still  much 


THE  LOCH.  269 

she  wanted  to  talk  about,  but  she  had  to  con- 
tent herself  with  arranging  a  meeting  at 
Kirsty's  cottage  on  the  following  afternoon. 

"  "We  shall  have  so  much  to  tell  her,  shan't 
we  ?  And  only  fancy,  Morag,  papa  is  coming, 
too !  He  says  he  will  drive  me  there — that 
he  wants  to  see  Kenneth  to  thank  him.  Is 
it  not  funny  to  think  that  papa  has  never 
seen  Kirsty  ?  He  says  he  is  quite  anxious  to 
be  introduced  to  her.  Won't  it  be  fun  to  see 
them  together?  I  have  been  telling  him  all 
the  things  I  want  him  too  look  at,  and  what 
chair  it  will  be  best  to  sit  on — it  would  be 
a  pity  if  he  took  Kirsty's  chair,  you  know. 
I'm  only  afraid  he  may  be  too  tall  to  get  in 
at  the  door.  I've  been  telling  him  he'll  have 
to  stoop  ever  so  much."  And  Blanche  laughed 
merrily  at  the  idea,  as  Ellis  hurried  Morag 
away,  saying  that  her  father  would  be  impa- 
tient. 

The  next  day  was  cold,  and  wet,  and  scowl- 
ing. Blanche  seemed  very  tired  and  feverish, 
and  was  not  allowed  to  leave  her  bed,  to 
which,  indeed,  she  made  no  resistance — the 
loch  adventure  seemed  so  completely  to  have 
exhausted  her.  She  dozed  comfortably  till 
evening,  when  her  papa  came  to  sit  beside 
her,  and  she  became  quite  lively  as  she  lis- 


270  MORAG. 

tened  to  his  account  of  his  visit  to  Kirsty's 
cottage,  which  he  had  paid  that  afternoon. 

"  Now,  Blanchie,  is  there  anything  more 
you  can  possibly  think  of  asking  concerning 
this  visit  ? "  said  Mr.  Clifford,  laughingly,  as  he 
replied  to  Blanche's  eager  questioning.  "  I 
couldn't  have  endured  a  greater  fire  of  cross- 
questioning  if  I  had  come  from  one  of  Her 
Majesty's  drawing-rooms,  and  you  wanted 
a  description  of  each  toilette.  Did  I  .see  a 
stool  called  '  Thrummy  ? '  "Well,  I  was  almost 
precipitated  into  the  fire-place,  just  as  I  was 
going  to  make  my  bow  to  Kirsty,  by  stumb- 
ling over  a  bundle  of  rags  which  answers  to 
your  description,  so  I  suppose  I  did  see  the 
historical  '  Thrummy.'  Smiling,  he  contin- 
ued :  "  Then  I  sat  down — I  hope  on  the  right 
chair — but  you  may  be  sure  I  was  dreadfully 
afraid  of  making  a  faux  pas  after  all  your 
instructions,  Blanchie.  I  ended  by  having 
quite  a  long  talk  with  your  friend  Kirsty, 
though  I  had  considerable  difficulty  in  under- 
standing her  dialect.  She  is  really  a  very 
fine  specimen  of  a  peasant  woman.  I  quite 
admire  your  taste,  pussy.  There  is  a  won- 
derful amount  of  sense  and  pathos  in  her  way 
of  viewing  things  in  general,  notwithstanding 
that  atrocious  northern  dialect." 


THE  LOCH.  271 

"  Oh,  papa !  don't  say  it's  atrocious !  I  like 
to  listen  to  it  so  much  now.  I'm  sure  I  could 
never  like  an  old  woman  half  so  well  if  she  did 
not  speak  like  Kirsty.  She  is  the  first  I  have 
ever  known, — and  I  love  her  so  much,"  added 
Blanche  with  a  sigh,  when  she  thought  how 
soon  she  would  be  far  away  from  the  ben-end  of 
Kirsty 's  cottage,  where  she  had  spent  some  of 
the  pleasantest  hours  of  her  life. 

"  Yes ;  she  is  a  first-rate  old  woman,  I  al 
low ;  but  she  has  put  me  in  the  embarrassing 
position  of  absolutely  refusing  to  accept  any 
reward  for  her  grandson's  brave  conduct  yester- 
day. Unfortunately,  one  is  not  much  accus- 
tomed to  such  delicacy  of  feeling,  so  perhaps 
I  did  not  manage  the  matter  rightly.  I  began 
to  see  what  kind  of  stuff  she  was  made  of,  and 
I  did  try  to  approach  the  subject  as  carefully  as 
possible.  But  she  shook  her  fine  old  head  res- 
olutely, and  would  not  hear  of  anything  more 
substantial  than  thanks." 

"  Ah  !  that  was  so  like  Kirsty  !  I  don't 
really  think  she  would  care  a  bit  for  anything 
you  might  give  her ;  only  I  do  think  she  will 
be  well  pleased  that  you  went  to  see  her,  and 
said  nice  things  about  Kenneth.  She  does  al- 
ways look  so  glad  to  see  Morag  and  me,"  added 
Blanche,  smiling  at  the  recollection  of  the  warm 


272  MORAG. 

reception  which  they  never  failed  to  receive  at 
the  little  cottage. 

"  But  did  you  not  see  Kenneth  himself, 
papa  ? " 

"  Yes,  I  did.  The  bright  idea  occurred  to 
me  that  the  grandson  might  be  more  amenable, 
and  before  the  old  woman  went  to  fetch  him,  I 
took  the  precaution  of  asking  her  not  to  lay 
any  commands  on  the  boy,  at  all  events.  She 
replied,  in  that  wonderful  voice  of  hers,  '  Na, 
na ;  I'se  houp  the  laddie  winna  need  nae  corn- 
man's  o'  mine  anent  sic  a  maitter.'  So  Ken- 
neth was  produced,  and  I  thanked  the  brave 
fellow,  in  your  name  and  mine.  His  face  quite 
glowed  with  pleasure,  I  saw ;  but  when  I  ad- 
ded, '  Now,  Kenneth,  my  little  daughter  wants 
to  give  you  something  more  than  thanks  for 
saving  her  life  and  her  little  friend's,  though 
we  know  money  can't  pay  for  a  brave  deed  like 
that,' — or  something  to  that  effect,  his  counte- 
nance fell  directly,  and  he  was  quite  as  inexora- 
ble on  that  point  as  his  old  grandmother.  So 
we  must  set  our  wits  to  work  to  manage  the 
matter.  I'll  speak  to  Dingwall  about  it." 

"  I'm  so  glad  Kenneth  didn't  want  to  take 
Anything,"  exclaimed  Blanche.  "I'm  sure 
Kirsty  will  be  glad.  She  is  so  very  anxious  he 
should  grow  up  a  really  good  man.  Don't  her 


THE  LOCH.  273 

gray   eyes  look  so  pretty   when   she    smiles, 
papa  ? " 

"  ISTow,  pussy,  I'm  not  going  to  join  in  any 
more  raptures  concerning  Kirsty's  eyes,  or  her 
other  perfections.  Good-night,  darling.  You 
are  looking  quite  feverish  again.  We  shall 
have  plenty  of  time  to  talk  about  Kirsty  when 
we  get  back  to  London,  you  know,"  added  Mr. 
Clifford,  as  he  saw  that  Blanche  looked  disap- 
pointed to  close  the  conversation. 

At  last  Blanche  went  to  sleep,  thinking  how 
very  nice  it  was  to  have  her  papa  all  to  herself, 
for  a  whole  evening  ;  and  that,  after  all,  though 
it  was  very  sad  to  leave  Glen  Eagle,  it  could 
not  be  dull  in  London  when  her  papa  was  to  be 
there,  as  he  evidently  meant  to  be,  when  he 
spoke  of  having  talks  about  Kirsty. 
18 


ZE 

THE  EMPTY  HUT. 

T  had  been  arranged  that  the  journey 
southward  should  be  postponed  for  a  few 
days  on  account  of  the  loch  accident ; 
but  the  next  morning  was  so  bright  and 
pleasant,  and  Blanche  looked  so  fresh  and  well, 
that  there  seemed  no  reason  for  departing  from 
the  original  plan^  and  it  was  hastily  decided  that 
she  and  her  governess  should  start  for  London, 
travelling  by  easy  stages. 

Great  was  Blanche's  dismay  when  she  heard 
of  this  arrangement.  She  had  been  rejoicing 
over  another  pleasant  day  in  the  Glen,  and  be- 
gan to  think  that  the  loch  adventure  had  some 
advantages  after  all,  seeing  it  was  going  to 'se- 
cure a  few  more  days  in  the  Highlands. 

"  It  can't  possibly  be  true,  Ellis.  You  had 
better  not  go  on  with  that  packing  till  you  get 
further  orders,"  said  the  little  girl,  in  a  tone 
more  imperious  than  she  almost  ever  used,  as 
she  found  her  maid  in  a  state  of  pleasurable 


THE  EMPTY  HUT.  275 


bustle  and  excitement  over  boxes  that  were 
being  quickly  filled. 

"  Yes,  missie ;  it's  quite  true,  I  assure  you," 
replied  her  maid,  without  looking  up  from  the 
box  over  which  she  was  stooping.  "  Miss  Pros- 
ser  says  it's  a  hexcellent  arrangement,  and,  for 
my  part,  I  agree  with  her  'eartily.  It  quite 
sets  one  up  to  think  of  gettin'  back  to  civilized 
existence.  There's  cook  quite  a  henvyin'  of 
me,  because  I'm  going  three  days  sooner." 

"  I  wish  I  were  cook,  I'm  sure,"  burst  in 
Blanche.  "But,  Ellis,  I'm  sure  papa  can't 
mean  me  to  go  to-day.  He  can't,  indeed !  I 
shall  go  and  ask  him  this  minute.  You'd  bet- 
ter stop  putting  in  those  things,  Ellis,"  she 
added,  impatiently. 

But  Ellis  smiled  confidently,  and  went  on 
with  her  work,  while  Blanche  ran  away  down 
the  great  staircase,  feeling  rather  faint-hearted, 
however,  as  she  thought  of  the  possibility  of 
Ellis's  tidings  being  true.  Below,  she  found 
everybody  in  a  state  of  the  most  unpleasant 
pre-occupation.  Miss  Prosser  was  in  the  midst 
of  elaborate  packings,  and  smilingly  assured  her 
little  pupil  that  they  were  really  going.  The 
carriage  was  to  be  at  the  door  exactly  at  twelve 
o'clock,  so  she  must  make  haste  to  be  ready  in 
time;  and  was  it  not  pleasant  they  were  go- 


276  MO  RAG. 

ing  to  have  such  a  fine  day  to  leave  Glen 
Eagle  ? — and  should  they  not  be  thankful  that 
she  was  well  enough  to  travel  so  soon  after  so 
serious  an  accident  ? 

Blanche  fled  from  Miss  Prosser,  along  the 
winding  passages  towards  the  library,  in  the 
hope  of  finding  her  papa.  There  was  still  one 
last  resource  ;  she  would  beg  him  to  allow  her 
to  remain,  even  one  day,  longer.  There  he 
was,  seated  in  the  library,  to  be  sure ;  but  sur- 
rounded by  such  piles  of  letters  and  papers, 
and  with  his  most  business-like  expression  on 
his  face.  Several  people  were  waiting  to  speak 
to  him  and  there  seemed  no  hope  of  Blanche 
gaining  an  audience,  unless  she  went  boldly  up 
to  him,  and  made  her  petition  before  them  all. 
She  lingered  about  for  a  little  time,  trying  to 
summon  up  courage,  but  at  last  glided  away 
without  uttering  a  word. 

Then  she  wandered  into  the  entrance-hall, 
and  stood  leaning  on  the  old  stuffed  fox,  watch- 
ing the  pile  of  boxes  and  portmanteaus  in  the 
court-yard,  which  increased  in  size  every  min- 
ute. The  servants  were  hurrying  to  and  fro 
in  a  state  of  bustle  and  excitement.  Evidently, 
to  Blanche  alone  these  signs  of  departure 
brought  a  pang  of  regret.  The  thought  of 
those  pleasant  vanished  afternoons  was  too 


THE  EMPTY  HUT.  277 


much  to  be  borne.  She  had  known  that  she 
must  leave  the  Highland  glen  before  long :  but 
she  did  not  dream  it  would  be  such  a  cruel 
tearing  away  as  this. 

After  wandering  aimlessly  about  for  some 
time,  she  remembered  that  she  must  see  Hora£ 

o 

before  the  dreaded  hour  arrived.  She  could 
not  surely  have  heard  that  they  were  really  go- 
ing to-day,  or  else  she  would  have  come,  and 
there  was  no  sign  of  her  anywhere.  Blanche 
wandered  round  the  castle,  among  the  grove 
of  ash-trees,  and  into  the  old  garden,  but  she 
did  not  find  her  friend  at  any  of  the  usual 
trysting-places. 

At  last  she  made  up  her  mind  what  she 
would  do.  Hurrying  swiftly  along  the  birk- 
walk,  where  the  drooping  boughs  were  quite 
golden  now,  she  clambered  up  the  steep  ascent 
which  led  to  the  little  shieling  among  the 
crags. 

Blanche's  spirits  began  to  rise  again.  It 
would  be  so  pleasant  to  give  Morag  a  surprise. 
Probably  she  would  find  her  at  work  inside 
the  cottage.  Perhaps  she  would  be  paring 
potatoes,  as  she  had  been  on  a  previous  occa- 
sion, which  Blanche  remembered  well — for  had 
she  not  sat  down  on  a  little  stool  beside  her,  and, 
being  provided  with  a  knife,  had  pared  away 


•J78  MORAG. 

delightedly.  She  thought  it  the  most  charm- 
ing of  amusements ;  but  when  she  was  dress- 
ing for  the  drawing-room  that  evening,  Ellis 
had  looked  suspiciously  at  the  stained  fingers, 
which  resisted  ordinary  ablutions,  and  Blanche, 
having  been  obliged  to  divulge  to  what  culi- 
nary uses  they  had  been  devoted  that  day,  had 
been  forbidden  by  her  governess  to  visit  Morag 
again.  It  was  therefore  many  weeks  since  she 
had  been  within  the  hut;  but  she  felt  sure 
that  Miss  Prosser  could  not  be  angry  at  her 
going  on  a  farewell  visit  like  this. 

The  door  stood  open,  and  Blanche  walked 
in  on  tiptoe,  smiling  to  think  how  astonished 
her  little  friend  would  be  to  see  her.  She 
glanced  eagerly  round  the  room,  but  no  Morag 
was  to  be  seen  anywhere.  The  peat  fire  was 
burning  brightly,  and  the  potatoes  lay  among 
water  in  a  nice  wooden  dish,  all  ready  pared. 
But  these  traces  of  the  absent  inmate  only 
made  the  disappointment  keener.  Blanche 
stood  looking  round,  with  a  very  dreary  feel- 
ing. It  was  so  hard  not  to  find  Morag,  and 
she  had  evidently  not  been  gone  for  long;  if 
she  had  only  thought  of  coming  earlier,  it 
would  have  been  all  right.  The  dreaded  hour 
fixed  for  leaving  the  castle  must  be  very  near 
now,  and  what  if  she  could  not  be  found  before 


THE  EMPTY  HUT.  279 


then  ?  Blanche's  heart  sank  as  she  contempla- 
ted the  possibility.  Before  she  turned  to  go, 
she  cast  a  lingering  glance  round  the  empty 
dwelling,  and  she  could  not  help  remarking 
how  much  nicer  it  looked  than  when  she  saw  it 
first. 

The  roof  was  still  far  from  being  rainproof 
certainly,  and  the  earthen  floor  was  more  undu- 
lating than  was  quite  pleasant  to  walk  upon ; 
but  the  most  had  been  made  of  everything  that 
•vvas  capable  of  improvement.  There  was  a 
sort  of  imitation  of  Kirsty's  household  arrange- 
ments which  was  very  observable  to  Blanche, 
and  she  smiled  through  her  tears  as  she  noted 
it.  On  the  shelf  was  ranged  quite  an  imposing 
row  of  shining  delf,  where  there  used  only  to 
stand  a  stray  broken  dish  or  two.  Everything 
was  spotlessly  clean  and  neat;  and,  in  the 
little  window,  there  flourished  some  of  the  old 
woman's  favorite  flowers,  of  which  she  had 
given  slips  to  Morag.  All  this,  and  more, 
Blanche's  quick  eye  took  in  at  a  gluncc  ;  and 
the  thought  of  its  being  the  work  of  a  pair  of 
little,  eager  hands  she  knew  well,  brought  quite 
a  glow  of  pleasure,  in  the  midst  of  her  disap- 
pointment. 

Blanche  stood  gazing  at  Morag's  home  till 
it  was  photographed  in  her  memory.     And  as 


280  MORAG. 

she  turned  away  to  go  down  the  hill,  she 
thought  that  surely  Morag  must  have  sought 
and  found  help  from  her  unseen  Friend  for  all 
those  home  duties,  which  it  must  be  so  difficult 
for  a  little  girl  no  bigger  than  herself  to  have 
to  do  ;  and  she  longed  to  hear  more  about  that 
friendship,  from  the  little  mountain  maiden. 

Gazing  wistfully  in  the  direction  of  the  fir- 
wood,  she  wondered  if  she  would  have  time  to 
go  to  see  whether  Morag  was  to  be  found  at 
their  old  trysting-piace,  the  flat  grey  rock ;  but 
she  dreaded  that  she  would  not,  so  she  hurried 
tearfully  towards  the  castle,  and  only  reached 
home  as  the  carriage  drove  to  the  door.  She 
found  Ellis  setting  out  to  look  for  her  in  a  state 
of  great  indignation  and  perplexity,  having, 
in  the  midst  of  the  bustle,  only  that  minute 
missed  her  charge.  Some  luncheon  had  to  be 
swrallowed  in  great  haste ;  and  then,  while  Miss 
Prosser  was  seating  herself  in  the  carriage, 
Blanche  took  the  opportunity  of  darting  off  on 
a  farewell  journey  round  the  grey  old  keep, 
where  she  had  spent  so  many  happy  days. 
Only  at  the  last  minute  did  her  papa  emerge 
from  the  library  to  say  good-bye  to  his  little 
daughter.  He  meant  to  go  south  by  a  differ- 
ent route,  and  would  not  rejoin  her  in  London 
for  several  weeks 


THE  EMPTY  HUT.  281 


Blanche  felt  as  if  all  the  waves  and  billows 
of  trouble  had  gone  over  her  head  when  she 
accidentally  heard  this  piece  of  news,  as  she 
was  at  last  compelled  to  seat  herself  in  the  car- 
riage by  Miss  Prosser's  side.  She  conld  not 
make  any  response  to  her  father's  cheerful 
waving  to  her  as  they  were  driven  swiftly  away. 
She  felt  the  knot  in  her  throat  getting  bigger 
every  minute  as  they  were  whirled  past  the 
pleasant  birk-walk  and  along  the  winding  ave- 
nue, getting  occasional  glimpses  through  the 
boughs  of  the  spruce  fir-trees  of  the  old  grey 
turrets,  or  the  moorland  beyond. 

At  last  they  got  upon  the  high  road,  and 
drove  swiftly  on  between  the  sharply  outlined 
mountains  that  reared  themselves  high  and 
solemn  all  round — like  sentinels  keeping  eter- 
nal watch  over  the  Glen,  amid  all  the  changes 
that  went  on  below. 

Miss  Prosser  was  busied  with  the  index  to 
"  Bradshaw,"  so  that,  fortunately,  or  the  re- 
verse, Blanche  was  left  to  her  own  reflections. 
She  kept  an  eager  watch,  as  they  drove  swiftly 
on  in  the  forlorn  hope  of  catching  a  glimpse  of 
Morag.  But  the  familiar  spots  were  quickly 
being  left  behind,  and  there  was  no  trace  of 
her  anywhere ;  and  Blanche's  hope  died  quite 
away  when  they  got  into  the  wider  range  of 


282  MORAG. 

the  strath, — away  in  the  direction  of  her  south- 
ern home. 

If  only  Blanche  had  not  buried  her  face  for 
a  moment  among  the  furs  as  she  was  passing 
the  larch  plantation,  which  at  a  certain  point 
skirted  the  high  road,  her  quick  eye  might 
have  discovered  the  person  she  so  longed  to 
see. 

Morag  stood  among  the  larch  trees,  bead- 
ing under  a  heavy  bundle  of  faggots,  which 
she  had  been  gathering,  and  which  she  had 
just  managed  to  strap  on  her  back.  Hearing 
the  sound  of  wheels  on  the  road,  she  turned  to 
look,  but  was  only  in  time  to  catch  a  glimpse 
of  the  carriage,  as  it  passed  swiftly  along  by 
the  old  winding  dyke.  Some  traces  of  luggage 
were  visible,  and  Ellis  was  seated  on  the  box. 
Morag's  heart  sank.  Was  it  possible  they 
were  leaving  the  Glen,  to-day,  after  all  ?  And 
she  had  been  going  cheerily  on  with  her  work 
that  morning,  in  the  hope  of  another  afternoon 
with  Blanche.  For  had  not  Ellis  told  her, 
when  she  went  to  inquire  at  the  castle  the  day 
before,  that  the  southward  journey  had  been 
postponed  for  several  days.  Only  a  short  time 
ago  she  had  been  smiling  as  she  gathered  her 
fire-wood,  thinking  how  pleased  Kirsty  would 
look  when  the  wee  leddy  walked  into  the  cot- 


THE  EMPTY  HUT.  283 


tage  that  afternoon.  But  now,  the  more  she 
thought  of  it,  the  more  sure  she  felt  that  those 
cruel,  swift  wheels  were  carrying  her  away  be- 
yond their  reach,  to  a  land  that  seemed  terri- 
ble and  unknown  indeed  to  the  little  moun- 
tain maiden. 

She  ran  to  the  edge  of  the  wood,  and  climb- 
ing on  the  lichen-spotted  dyke,  she  gazed  wist- 
fully along  the  winding  road,  where  the  shin- 
ing carriage  was  rolling  swiftly  along.  And 
after  she  had  watched  it  till  it  could  be  seen  no 
longer,  the  little  girl  sat  down  and  wept  bit- 
t  rly.  Her  bonnie  wee  leddy  had  gone  with- 
out one  parting  word.  Surely  she  must  have 
utterly  forgotten  her,  or  else  she  could  not  have 
acted  thus.  Gladly  would  she  have  walked 
miles  across  pathless  hills  to  touch  her  wee  led- 
dy's  hand,  and  now  she  had  gone  without  ever 
sending  to  ask  her  to  come.  And,  as  she  sat 
weeping  on  the  old  grey  dyke,  the  friendship 
of  these  autumn  days  seemed  to  grow  dream- 
like all  of  a  sudden.  Had  she  ever  really 
walked  by  Shag's  side  with  the  little  lady  of 
the  castle  among  the  moors,  or  sat  with  her  in 
the  ben-end  of  Kirsty  Macpherson's  cottage  ? — 
or,  had  she  been  in  fairyland  all  these  weeks  ? 
The  past  seemed  to  grow  so  shadowy ;  and  the 
bundle  of  dead  sticks  was  so  real  and  heavy,  as 


284  MORAG. 

she  wearily  rose,  at  last,  to  take  her  solitary 
way  to  the  hut  among  the  crags. 

She  had  only  gone  a  few  steps  in  the  direc- 
tion of  home,  when  she  saw  coming  towards 
her  through  the  larch  trees  Kenneth  Mac- 
pherson. 

"  Who  would  have  thought  of  meeting  you 
here,  Morag  ? "  he  cheerily  accosted  her. 
"And  with  such  a  heavy  bundle  of  sticks, 
too.  Let  me  carry  it  for  you — do  !  Why 
it's  bigger  than  yourself!"  he  added,  with  a 
pleasant  smile,  as  he  unfastened  it  and  threw 
it  across  his  own  broad  shoulders. 

"You're  going  home,  I  suppose,  Morag; 
ar'nt  you?"  he  asked  as  he  walked  by  her 
side.  "  I  didn't  know  you  ever  came  here. 
I  often  do.  I  can  hardly  ever  pass  the  place 
without  crossing  the  dyke.  You  mind  the 
tartan  folds,  Morag  ? "  said  the  boy,  smiling 
sadly,  as  he  glanced  at  the  lonely  spot  from 
whence  his  mother's  soul  had  gone  home  to 
God. 

"  Ay  do  I !  I  mind  upon't  weel,"  replied 
Morag,  with  quivering  lip.  The  remembrance 
brought  such  a  rush  of  mingled  recollections 
that  she  could  not  say  more  just  then. 

"  Oh,  by  the  by,  Morag,  I  wish  I  had 
known  a  few  minutes  ago  that  you  were  to 


THE  EMPTY  HUT.  285 


be  found  here.  I  saw  somebody  who  was 
very  anxious  to  get  a  sight  of  you.  Who  do 
you  think  ?  The  bounie  wee  leddy,  as  you  call 
her,  on  her  way  back  to  London  ! " 

Morag  stood  still  to  listen,  and  as  she 
looked  earnestly  into  Kenneth's  face,  he  no- 
ticed that  she  had  been  crying.  "  I  never  kent 
she  was  awa  till  I  got  a  blink  o'  the  cairage 
no  lang  syne.  She  never  telt  me  she  was 
goin'  the  day,"  and  the  little  girl  struggled 
vainly  to  keep  back  the  tears. 

"  But  I'm  sure  it  wasn't  her  fault  that  you 
did  not  know  she  was  leaving  the  Glen  to-day, 
Morag.  She  seemed  very  sorry-like  herself, 
and  sent  a  message  to  you.  When  she  noticed 
me  on  the  road  she  jumped  up  from  among 
a  lot  of  furs,  and  stopped  the  carriage.  The 
lady  beside  her  was  reading  a  book,  and  she 
looked  up  some  angry  like,  and  said  something 
sharp.  I  think  the  wee  leddy  wanted  to  get 
out  of  the  carriage  to  come  and  speak  to  me, 
but  she  wouldn't  let  her.  Then  she  stretched 
her  hand  down  and  smiled  very  pleasantly, 
though  I  think  she  had  been  crying,  too," 
added  the  kind-hearted  Kenneth  rather  pathet- 
ically, as  he  glanced  at  Morag.  "  Then  she 
began  to  thank  me  for  what  I  did  at  the  loch. 
I'm  sure  it  wasn't  anything  to  thank  a  body 


286  MORAG. 

so  much  for.  Such  a  pretty  voice  she  has. 
It  just  sounded  like  the  chimes  of  silver  bells, 
Morag.  And  after  she  had  thanked  me,  she 
stooped  down  quite  low,  and  whispered  as  if 
she  were  afraid  that  the  lady  would  hear,  '  Oh, 
Kenneth,  do  you  think  you  could  find  Morag 
anywhere  ?  I'm  sure  she  can't  know  I've 
gone,  or  else  she  would  surely  have  come  to 
see  me.'  But  just  then  the  lady  rose  very 
angry  like,  '  and  said,  sharply,  '  Come  now, 
Blanche,  I  cannot  permit  this.  Drive  on, 
Lucas ! '  she  called  out  to  the  coachman ;  and 
then  she  sat  down  to  her  book  again.  The 
wee  lady  seemed  very  vexed,  and  when  the 
horses  started,  she  stretched  down  once  again, 
and  her  curls  came  falling  about  her  face 
and  she  cried,  '  Give  Morag  my  dearest 
love!'" 

When  Kenneth  had  finished  his  narration, 
Morag  began  to  sob  again,  and  he  felt  greatly 
at  a  loss  to  know  how  to  comfort  her.  But 
they  were  tears  of  joy  now.  The  feeling  of 
bitterness  was  all  gone.  Her  bonnie  wee  leddy 
had  not  forgotten  her,  and  the  friendship  of 
those  autumn  days  was  no  bit  of  fairyland  after 
all. 

Kenneth  did  not  leave  her  till  the  bundle 
of  firewood  was  deposited  in  the  hut,  and 


THE  EMPTY  HUT.  287 

Morag  had  promised  to  come  and  pay  them  a 
visit  at  the  cottage  that  afternoon. 

And  as  he  went  sauntering  down  the  hill 
with  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  whistling  a  tune, 
he  thought  what  a  very  nice  girl  Morag  was  ; 
and  how  glad  he  felt  that  it  was  not  she  who 
had  gone  away  from  the  Glen.  And  he  further 
decided  that  such  a  great  bundle  of  sticks  was 
much  too  heavy  for  a  girl  to  carry,  and  resolved 
that,  in  future,  he  should  always  be  in  attend- 
ance to  carry  home  the  firewood. 

As  Morag  re-entered  the  cottage,  and 
glanced  round  the  empty  room,  she  saw  some- 
thing lying  on  the  earthen  floor  which  she  had 
not  dropped  there;  and  stooping  down,  she 
picked  up  a  little,  half-worn  glove,  which  told 
a  tale.  She  looked  eagerly  round,  as  if  some 
lingering  presence  of  itas  owner  must  still  per- 
vade. Her  bonnie  wee  leddy  was  leal  and  true 
after  all,  and  she  felt  remorseful  that  she  had 
doubted  her  for  a  moment.  Kissing  the  token 
reverently,  she  opened  the  old  kist,  and  slipped 
it  between  the  folds  of  her  most  precious  book, 
where  it  remained  a  sacred  relic  of  that  morn- 
ing's visitor  for  many  a  long  year. 


zm 

BACK  IN  LONDON. 

fa 

|'T  was  a  foggy  November  afternoon ;  the 
color  of  the  surrounding  atmosphere 
was  almost  as  yellow  as  the  gorgeous 
damask  hangings  which  draped  Mr. 
Clifford's  handsome  drawing-room.  Our  friend 
Blanche  was  wandering  listlessly  up  and  down 
the  room,  in  one  of  her  most  restless  moods,  her 
governess  remarked,  as  she  looked  up  from  a 
piece  of  elaborate  lace-work  which  was  grow- 
ing rapidly  under  her  diligent  fingers. 

It  was  the  usual  hour  for  walking,  but  the 
unpleasant  weather  had  kept  them  indoors. 
Blanche  seemed  to  find  this  play-hour  extremely 
dull,  and  appeared  to  have  failed  in  all  her 
efforts  to  amuse  herself.  On  one  of  the  couches 
there  lay  open  a  beautiful  drawing-room  book 
of  engravings,  which  she  had  been  looking  at, 
but  she  knew  all  the  pictures  by  heart  already, 
so  she  soon  tired  of  turning  the  leaves.  Then 
she  went  to  the  piano  to  try  over  some  old 


BA  CK  IN  LONDON.  289 


chorales  of  her  mamma's  copying,  which  she 
had  found  among  her  music ;  but  Miss  Prosser 
presently  remarked  that  she  might  play  some- 
thing more  lively  on  such  a  dismal  day  as  this, 
so  Blanche,  at  last,  glided  away  among  the  cur- 
tains, and  stood  looking  out  on  the  dense  fog. 
The  amber  gloom  enveloped  even  the  nearest 
objects,  so  there  was  really  nothing  to  see  from 
the  window,  though  Blanche  stood  gazing  out 
intently.  But  there  was  a  far-away  look  in  her 
eyes  which  seemed  to  betoken  that  it  was  a 
mental  picture  which  absorbed  her. 

Miss  Prosser  again  glanced  uneasily  at  her 
little  charge;  but  this  time  she  did  not  speak. 
Her  pupil  had  been  rather  a  puzzle  to  ker  of 
late,  and  she  would  gladly  have  shared  her 
thoughts  as  she  stood  there.  It  was  not  her 
habit,  however,  to  elicit  confidences  of  any  kind 
from  her  pupils ;  and,  indeed,  till  quite  lately, 
it  had  not  been  necessary  in  Blanche  Clifford's 
case.  Her  nature  was  so  frank  and  gay  that 
her  thoughts  were  generally  shared  by  those 
nearest  to  her,  whether  they  were  sympathetic 
listeners  or  not.  But,  of  late,  a  change  had 
been  stealing  over  the  little  girl.  She  had 
grown  more  quiet  and  self-contained  than  she 
used  to  be.  Less  wayward  and  troublesome 
she  certainly  was,  but  her  governess  sometimes 
19 


290  MORAG. 

thought,  as  she  looked  at  her  thoughtful  face, 
that  she  would  gladly  welcome  back  some  of 
the  old  boisterous  ways  which  she  used  to  char- 
acterize so  severely. 

Presently  Blanche  emerged  from  among  the 
yellow  draperies,  and,  seating  herself  on  a  low 
stool,  looked  meditatively  into  the  fire. 

"  Miss  Prosser,  I  am  afraid  yon  will  think 
it  a  very  siTy  question  I'm  going  to  ask," 
she  said  presently,  as  she  threw  herself  at  her 
governess'  feet,  laying  her  hands  on  her  knees. 
"Do  you  think  I  begin  to  get  any  better  at  all? 
I  have  been  trying  so  hard  to  be  good  ever 
since  I  came  from  Glen  Eagle ;  but  it  is  so  dif- 
ficult," added  Blanche,  with  a  deep  sigh. 
"  There  now,  I  tried  ever  so  hard  to  write  that 
French  letter  correctly  last  night,  and  yet  I  had 
several  mistakes  to-day,  you  know." 

"  My  dear  child,  you  are  getting  morbid. 
This  unpleasant  fog  has  a  most  depressing  ef- 
fect, I  know.  You  are  a  very  good  child,  my 
dear.  There  is  no  reason  to  reproach  yourself 
as  you  do,  I  assure  you.  Only  this  morning, 
in  my  report  to  your  father,  I  stated  that  I  was 
pleased  with  your  progress,  and  Signer  Lesbini 
was  expressing  his  satisfaction  with  you,  also," 
added  Miss  Prosser,  who,  however,  felt  rather 
disconcerted  by  the  new  role  she  had  to  play  in 


BACK  IN  LONDON.  291 


taking  her  pupil's  part  against  herself.  It  was 
so  unlike  the  bright,  careless  Blanche  of  a  few 
months  ago  ;  and  as  she  glanced  at  the  wistful, 
upturned  face,  she  noticed  that  the  outline  of 
the  cheek  was  sharper  than  of  old,  and  the  del- 
icate tracery  of  veins  on  the  forehead  more  vis- 
ible. Still  the  child  was  well  enough,  to  all 
appearance,  and  Miss  Prosser  began  to  think 
that  she,  too,  must  be  growing  fanciful. 

"  But  you  don't  see  my  heart,  Miss  Prosser, 
or  you  would  not  say  I  was  good,"  replied 
Blanche,  looking  into  her  governess'  face  with 
a  perplexed  gaze.  "  You  have  no  idea  how 
naughty  I  felt  to-day,  when  you  decided  that 
we  should  not  go  out  to  walk.  I  think  I  feel 
oftener  cross  than  I  used  to  do  ;  and  yet  I  try 
so  very  hard  to  be  good,"  sighed  Blanche,  des- 
pondingly.  "  Will  you  tell  me,  Miss  Prosser, 
if  you  thought  much  about  the  Lord  Jesus 
Christ,  and  tried  to  please  Him,  when  you  were 
about  my  age?  I  wonder  whether  my  mam- 
ma did  ! "  continued  the  little  girl,  as  she  looked 
musingly  into  the  lire. 

"  My  dear  Blanche,  of  course  it  is  proper 
that  we  should  lead  Christian  lives.  You  know 
our  parents  and  sponsors  undertook  that  for  us, 
in  baptism.  And  one  day  you  will  be  con- 
firmed, I  hope.  I  should  like  you  to  go  up  at 


292  MORAG. 

the  same  time  as  your  cousin,  Lady  Matilda.  By 
the  way,  Blanche,  I  think  I  shall  write  and  ask 
her  mamma  if  she  may  come  and  spend  a  day 
with  you.  You  have  hardly  seen  her  since  you 
came  home.  And  you  shall  have  a  whole  hol- 
iday, and  do  whatever  you  like.  You  quite 
deserve  it,  for  you  have  been  a  most  diligent 
child  lately.  We  have  really  been  getting  over 
a  great  deal  of  ground.  And  these  harp-lessons, 
which  your  papa  is  so  anxious  for  you  to  have, 
do  take  up  so  much  time.  Yes,  I  think  I  shall 
write  this  afternoon  and  ask  the  little  Lady 
Matilda  to  come  on  Friday." 

Blanche  sighed,  and  continued  her  medita- 
tions among  the  glowing  coals.  She  was  think- 
ing of  another  friend  whom  she  would  much 
rather  have  to  spend  the  day.  One  afternoon's 
ramble  in  the  fir-wood  with  Morag  Diugwall, 
she  thought,  would  be  worth  half-a-dozen  walks 
in  the  Park  with  any  Lady  Matilda  in  the 
world. 

These  autumn  days  already  began  to  gather 
round  them  that  halo  which  seems  always  to  sur- 
round past  periods.  The  very  names  and  places 
connected  with  those  days  thrilled  Blanche  like 
the  music  of  a  song.  But,  unlike  her  usual 
frank  disposition,  she  never  had  these  names 
on  her  lips,  but  kept  them  like  a  stolen  casket 


BACK  IN  LONDON.  293 


of  precious  gems,  only  to  be  taken  out  and 
looked  at  when  alone.  So  noticeable,  indeed, 
was  her  silence  concerning  Glen  Eagle,  that 
Miss  Prosser  concluded  the  Highland  experi- 
ences were  quite  out  of  mind ;  and  she  was  not 
sorry,  on  the  whole,  to  think  that  the  bond  had 
been  so  quickly  loosened  between  her  pupil  and 
the  little  mountaineer. 

The  maid  Ellis  was  absent  on  a  visit  to  her 
friends,  or  probably  her  many  garrulous  mem- 
ories of  Stratheagle  might  have  broken  through 
Blanche's  reserve ;  but,  as  it  was,  she  dwelt  si- 
lently among  her  mental  pictures  of  the  High- 
land glen. 

When  Signor  Lesbini,  her  music  master, 
was  announced,  Blanche's  thoughts  were  far 
away  in  the  ben-end  of  Kirsty's  cottage.  Start- 
ing up  from  her  seat  by  the  fire,  she  ran  to  find 
her  music,  while  the  servant  placed  her  harp  in 
its  usual  position,  and  Miss  Prosser  and  the 
music  master  were  exchanging  stately  salutes. ' 

Mr.  Clifford  was  anxious  that  Blanche's 
taste  for  music  should  be  cultivated  in  every 
direction  ;  and  these  lessons  were  inserted  in 
the  educational  programme  by  his  special  de- 
sire. Blanche  was  very  anxious  that  she  should 
be  able  to  make  some  pleasant  sounds  on  the 
harp  before  her  father  came  home  ;  and  sho 


294  MORAG. 

was  succeeding  in  doing  so,  to  judge  from  her 
master's  frequent,  soft,  "  bene, — benissimo,  Sig- 
norina !  " 

Miss  Prosser,  meanwhile  retired  to  a  dis- 
tant corner  of  the  room  to  write  various  small 
scented  notes  to  her  friends.  Among  others, 
an  invitation  was  duly  despatched  to  the  small 
Lady  Matilda,  asking  her  to  spend  a  day  with 
her  cousin,  and  to  go  to  the  pantomime  in  the 
evening.  The  latter  part  of  the  programme 
Miss  Prosser  kept  as  a  reserve  treat  for  Blanche, 
who  had  never  been  to  a  pantomime,  and  wished 
very  much  to  see  one. 

The  invitation  was  duly  accepted  on  behalf 
of  the  little  Lady  Matilda.  She  appeared  on 
the  day  appointed,  alighting  from  her  smart 
pony  carriage,  escorted  by  her  maid  and  foot- 
man. She  was  a  lean,  dark,  sallow  child,  very 
different  in  coloring  and  expression  from  her 
cousin  Blanche.  She  always  appeared  in  the 
most  sleek,  unruffled  state  of  tidiness  and  pro- 
priety ;  she  looked,  in  fact,  as  if  she  had  come 
into  the  world  precisely  as  she  stood — at  the 
same  stage  of  growth,  and  in  the  same  faultless 
toilette.  At  least  such  was  the  reflection  which 
sometimes  rose  to  Ellis's  mind  as  she  surveyed 
her  with  half  envious,  half  contemptuous  eyes, 
side  by  side  with  her  careless  and  often  dishev- 


BA  CK  IN  LONDON,  295 


elled  little  mistress,  whose  shoulders  would 
somehow  get  out  of  her  frocks ;  and  one  of 
whose  shoes  had  been  actually  known  to 
go  amissing  during  dinner,  being  afterwards 
brought  to  her,  on  a  silver  tray,  by  her  aunt's 
solemn  butler.  Of  this  terrible  faux  pas,  the 
Lady  Matilda's  maid  occasionally  reminded  Ellis 
when  they  quarrelled  over  the  respective  merits 
of  their  little  ladies. 

Notwithstanding  Miss  Prosser's  well-mean- 
ing efforts  to  create  a  friendship  between  the 
cousins,  they  did  not  appear  to  draw  to  each 
other  in  the  least.  The  earlier  hours  of  the 
day  passed  in  uneventful  dulness — at  least  so 
thought  Blanche,  who  shocked  her  governess 
by  yawuing  twice  in  her  visitor's  face,  and 
exhibiting  various  other  tokens  of  her  want  of 
appreciation  of  her  society.  Finally,  she  dis- 
appeared for  a  period,  and  returned  with  the 
cook's  white  kitten  rolled  in  her  smart  blue 
velvet  dress — a  trophy  from  among  the  pots 
and  pans,  and  showing  too  many  truces  of  its 
former  playground  to  deserve  its  name  of 
Snow. 

The  calm  little  Lady  Matilda  surveyed  her 
companion's  restless  movements  with  a  look  of 
mild  surprise,  glancing  up,  now  and  then,  from 
a  piece  of  lace-work,  on  which  she  was  bestow- 


296  MORAG. 

ing  great  thought  and  care.  Miss  Prosser  had 
been  admiring  it  greatly  ;  and  commended  her 
diligence  in  a  way  which  reflected  somewhat 
on  her  own  pupil's  want  of  that  quality,  par- 
ticularly as  regarded  needlework. 

"  But  what's  the  use  of  it  ?  What  do  you 
mean  to  do  with  it,  Matty?"  asked  Blanche, 
unrolling  the  elaborate  piece  of  work  in 
question. 

"  My  dear  Blanche,  you  are  not  always  so 
practical,  I  am  sure,"  said  Miss  Prosser,  com- 
ing to  the  rescue.  "  Do  you  not  know  that  it 
is  a  part  of  every  young  lady's  education  to  be 
able  to  sew  fancy  work?  And,  besides,  the 
habit  of  diligence  is  so  good,  my  dear  Blanche ; 
you  ought  to  remember  that." 

"  Well ;  but  it  seems  to  me  that  there  is  no 
use  of  some  people  being  diligent — about  sew- 
ing, at  all  events.  Don't  you  remember  these 
slippers  I  sewed  for  papa,  Miss  Prosser?  He 
certainly  seemed  very  much  pleased  when  I 
gave  them  to  him ;  and  I  felt  as  if  I  had  been 
really  useful  in  having  made  a  pair  of  shoes; 
and  thought  it  would  be  so  nice  to  see  papa 
going  about  in  shoes  of  my  making.  But,  not 
long  afterwards,  I  heard  him  say  to  somebody 
that  he  detested  sewed  slippers,  and  never 
wore  them.  I  suppose  he  had  forgotten  a1! 


BACK  IN  LONDON.  297 


about  the  pair  I  made  for  him  then,  because 
I'm  sure  he  would  not  have  wanted  to  hurt  my 
feelings,"  added  Blanche"  pathetically. 

The  conversation  was  here  interrupted  by 
the  servant  coining  to  ask  at  what  hour  the 
carriage  would  be  required;  and  then  the. de- 
lightful secret  came  out  at  last.  Blarche  was 
in  an  ecstacy  of  delight  at  the  prospect  of  see- 
ing a  pantomime.  Some  time  ago  her  gover- 
ness would  have  checked  her  glee  as  an  unbe- 
coming outburst,  but  now  she  hailed  it  as  a 
proof  that  her  little  charge  was  regaining  that 
elasticity  of  spirit  which  she  had  somewhat 
lost  of  late,  and  she  congratulated  herself 
on  the  success  of  her  efforts  for  her  amuse- 
ment. 

The  pantomime  that  evening  was  "  The 
Babes  in  the  Wood,"  though  it  certainly  con- 
tained marvellous  variations  not  suggested  by 
the  old  English  ballad  which  it  was  meant  to 
illustrate.  In  fact  the  Babes  themselves  were 
hardly  distinguishable,  so  surrounded  were  they 
by  moving  troops  of  wee  green  folk,  peeping 
out  in  all  directions,  and  marvellously  sus- 
pended from  the  boughs  of  trees.  Indeed,  it 
is  doubtful  whether  the  original  robins  could 
have  found  a  branch  throughout  the  forest  to 
hop  on — so  covered  were  they  by  dazzling 


298  MO  RAG. 

fairies  performing  all  manner  of  wonderful  evo- 
lutions in  mid-air. 

Lady  Matilda  surveyed  the  marvellous  scene 
with  considerably  more  repose  of  manner  than 
her  cousin.  She  was  quite  an  old  frequenter 
of  such  exhibitions,  so  she  was  able  to  compare 
it  with  yet  more  gorgeous  performances,  and  to 
feel  pretty  sure  what  was  coming  next. 

But  to  Blanche,  the  pantomime  had  all  the 
charm  of  novelty.  She  stood  entranced,  gaz- 
ing at  the  stage  with  eager,  upturned  face. 
More  than  one  frequenter  of  the  theatre  ob 
served  with  amusement  the  eager  little  girl, 
who  was  not  content  to  view  the  scene  from 
her  comfortable  chair  in  the  box,  but  kept  lean- 
ing forward,  in  a  bewilderment  of  happiness, 
notwithstanding  her  cousin's  mild  suggestions 
that  she  would  be  very  tired  before  the  end  of 
the  play  if  she  did  not  sit  down. 

Every  scene  was  more  charming  and  won- 
derful than  the  one  which  went  before.  The 
fun  among  the  wee  green  folks  was  getting 
more  fast  and  furious  every  minute.  Blanche 
thought  they  looked  like  dragon-flies  in  the 
sunshine,  as  they  went  flitting  about.  It  had 
not  occurred  to  her  that  they  were  real  flesh 
and  blood  creatures  like  herself,  till,  suddenly, 
one  dazzling  little  elf  fell  from  a  giddy  height, 


BACK  IN  LONDON.  299 


on  to  the  stage.  For  a  moment,  Blanche  fan- 
cied that  the  descent  of  the  fairy  was  all  part 
ot  the  fun  ;  but  presently  a  shrill  cry  of  human 
piiin,  and  a  few  compassionate  voices  from  the 
crowd  below,  caused  her  to  realize  that  under- 
neath the  mass  of  gauze  and  gilt  there  was  a 
poor  body  in  pain. 

In  an  instant  the  poor  crushed  fairy  was 
borne  away  from  the  bright  scene,  and  the  fun 
went  on  again  in  mad  hurly-burly.  But, 
somehow,  Blanche's  eyes  had  grown  dim,  and 
she  shrank  back  on  her  seat  with  a  shudder. 

"  Why,  what's  the  matter,  cousin  Blanche  ? " 
whispered  the  imperturbable  little  Lady  Matil- 
da, as  she  surveyed  her  cousin's  movement  with 
mild  surprise. 

"  Oh,  didn't  you  see,  Matty  ?  I'm  afraid  it 
must  be  awfully  hurt.  It  fell  from  such  a 
height — the  fairy,  I  mean.  Didn't  you  hear 
it  cry  ?  it  sounded  so  dreadful  when  we  were 
al"  so  happy.  I  never  dreamt  they  could  feel." 

Lady  Matilda  showed  a  row  of  pearly  teeth 
as  she  replied,  "Why,  yes,  of  course.  How 
odd  you  are,  Blanche.  Didn't  you  know  they 
are  poor  children,  who  do  all  this  for  money  ? 
I  should  think  they  must  be  quite  used  to  fall- 
ing by  this  time." 

Blanche   was   horror-struck.     She    tried  to 


300  MORAG. 

avert  her  eyes  from  the  stage,  but,  in  spite  of 
herself,  she  felt  her  glance  riveted  on  the  hov- 
ering fairies,  not  in  delight  now,  but  in  terror, 
lest  another  of  them  should  fall. 

"  Little  girls  who  do  it  for  bread,"  Blanche 
repeated  to  herself,  as  she  leant  back  on  her 
seat,  and  covered  her  face  with  her  hands. 
And  as  she  sat  thus,  her  thoughts  went  slip- 
ping back  to  the  Highland  glen.  She  remem- 
bered the  elfish-looking  little  form  that  gazed 
in  upon  her  at  the  window  of  the  old  castle, 
on  that  autumn  morning ;  and  she  shuddered 
to  think  how,  under  other  circumstances,  her 
friend  Morag  might  have  been  such  a  victim. 
Then  she  began  to  think  of  the  poor  fairy ; 
she  wondered  whether  she  was  dreadfully  hurt, 
and  resolved  that  she  should  beg  Miss  Prosser 
to  make  inquiries  before  they  left  the  theatre. 

It  was  with  a  feeling  of  relief  that  she  saw 
the  curtain  drop  at  last,  and  the  people  begin 
to  move  away.  Then  she  made  an  eager  ap- 
peal that  they  should  go  and  ask  after  the 
child.  The  request  seemed  utterly  outrageous 
when  first  presented  to  Miss  Prosser's  mind; 
but  Blanche  was  so  urgent  that,  at  last,  she 
consented  to  dispatch  the  maid  to  make  in- 
quiries behind  the  scenes.  Then  Blanche  be- 
gan to  plead  to  be  allowed  to  go,  too.  She 


BACK  IN  LONDON.  30 1 

was  so  very  eager  that  her  governess,  at  last, 
after  many  injunctions  to  the  maid,  gave  a  re- 
luctant consent,  arranging  that  she  should  wait 
in  the  box  with  the  little  Lady  Matilda,  who 
seemed  to  view  her  impetuous  cousin's  move- 
ments with  unfeigned  astonishment,  not?  un- 
mixed with  annoyance. 

Blanche  was  all  trembling  with  excitement 
when  the  maid  took  her  hand,  and  they  began 
to  thread  their  way  through  the  corridors,  which 
were  getting  emptied  now.  Presently  they 
met  a  man  who  was  putting  out  the  lights,  and 
the  maid  stopped  to  ask  where  they  could  go  to 
inquire  after  the  hurt  fairy.  Having  got  direc- 
tions how  to  proceed,  they  went  on  through 
narrower  and  less  luxurious  passages — so  dark 
and  dingy-looking  that  Blanche  began  to  feel 
afraid,  and  grasped  her  maid's  hand  more 
tightly.  They  came  at  last  to  a  room,  the  door 
of  which  stood  half  open.  They  were  hesita- 
ting whether  this  was  the  room  to  which  they 
had  been  directed,  when  they  heard  a  thin, 
feeble  voice  within,  moaning,  as  if  in  pain. 

"  That's  the  fairy,  I'm  sure,  Grant,"  whis- 
pered Blanche,  eagerly.  "  Do  just  peep  in  and 
see." 

The  maid  pushed  open  the  door  and  walked 
a  few  steps  forward.  On  the  floor  stood  a  par- 


302  MO  RAG. 

affine  lamp  which  shed  a  dim  light  throughout 
the  room,  showing  a  heap  of  matting  in  the 
corner,  where  a  poor,  emaciated  child  lay. 
Gleaming  through  the  half  darkness,  Blanche 
could  distinguish  a  pale,  sharp,  nnchildlike  face, 
that  rested  on  a  thin  shrivelled  hand.  A 
wretched  mud-colored  rag  seemed  to  be  her 
sole  garment ;  and,  at  her  side,  there  stood  a 
pair  of  big  boots,  or  what  served  for  them,  but 
they  seemed  almost  detached  pieces  of  leather 
now;  besides  being  of  a  considerably  larger 
size  than  the  wearer  would  require.  Lying  on 
a  table,  in  another  corner  of  the  room,  was  the 
gauzy  fairy  gear,  at  which  Blanche  glanced 
sadly,  thinking  it  contrasted  strangely  with  the 
wretched  rags  for  which  it  had  been  ex- 
changed. 

On  hearing  the  sound  of  footsteps,  the  child 
started  up,  and  looked  wildly  round,  as  she  ex- 
claimed, "  O  mother !  you'll  not  beat  me  this 
time !  I'm  so  bad — it's  my  leg !  Tim  said  he 
never  saw  nothing  like  the  fall  I  got !  Oh,  my  ! 
it  hurts  awful ! "  and  the  child  began  to  writhe 
in  pain. 

"  It  is  not  your  mother — poor  thing !  But 
I  daresay  your  mother  will  be  here  before  long," 
said  the  maid,  in  a  compassionate  tone,  as  she 
stooped  down  to  look  at  the  child. 


BACK  IN  LONDON.  303 


In  a  moment,  Blanche  was  kneeling  beside 
the  heap  of  matting,  her  pretty  blue  opera 
cloak  falling  on  the  grimy  floor  as  she  took  the 
child's  little  black  fingers  in  her  hands,  saying, 
eagerly,  "O  poor,  poor  fairy! — little  girl,  I 
mean,"  she  added,  for  she  conld  not  yet  divest 
herself  of  the  idea  of  the  gauzy  wings  and 
woven  spangles, — "  what  a  dreadful  fall  you  had. 
I'm  afraid  you  must  be  very  much  hurt ! " 

The  child  drew  her  hand  away,  and  looked 
sharply  at  Blanche.  Presently  she  nodded, 
saying,  "I  know;  you're  the  pretty  little  girl 
what  looked  so  pleased  at  the  pantomime.  We 
noticed  you — Tim  and  me.  Tim's  the  boy 
what  hangs  the  lamps,  you  know.  He's  gone 
to  fetch  mother;  but  she  aren't  a-comin'  yet. 
Drinkin'  again,  most  likely — she's  always  at  it." 

Just  then  a  loud-voiced,  boisterous  woman 
came  staggering  into  the  room. 

"  Well,  young  'un,  so  you've  been  and  gone 
and  done  it  again  !  Didn't  I  tell  you  to  mind 
your  feet,  you  little  idiot ! "  and  the  woman, 
stooping  down,  seized  the  child  and  shook  her 
roughly. 

"  Oh,  mother,  mother,  don't !  I  couldn't 
help  it,  noways — my  head  got  so  giddy.  Oh, 
I'm  so  bad  !  "  the  weak  voice  wailed  out ;  and 
presently  the  little  face  got  more  pale  and 


304  MORACr. 

pinched  than  before,  and  the  poor  fairy  fainted 
away. 

"You've  killed  her,  you  have — you  cruel, 
cruel  woman  !  How  dare  you  speak  so  ? "  said 
Blanche,  quivering  with  indignation,  as  she 
sprang  to  her  feet  from  beside  the  matting 
where  she  had  been  kneeling,  and  almost  sprang 
at  the  half -tipsy  woman. 

"  Ho,  ho !  pretty  bird ;  and  who  may  you 
be  ?  and  what's  your  business,  I'd  like  to  know, 
a-comin'  between  me  and  my  brat !  "  shouted 
the  woman,  folding  her  arms,  and  glaring  at 
the  little  girl. 

The  maid  stepped  forward  immediately, 
and  said,  in  a  quiet,  firm  tone,  "  Come,  Miss 
Clifford,  we  must  go  at  once."  And  then 
turning  to  the  woman,  she  added,  "  We  merely 
came  to  make  inquiries  after  the  poor  child. 
We  saw  her  get  a  dreadful  fall  a  short  time 
ago.  I  fear  she  is  very  much  hurt.  I  really 
think  you  will  do  well  to  look  after  your  child,'' 
added  Grant,  as  she  took  Blanche's  hand,  and 
prepared  to  go.  She  glanced  at  the  poor  fairy, 
who  was  still  lying  unconscious,  and  discover- 
ing a  jug  of  water  standing  near,  the  maid 
sprinkled  some  on  the  child's  face  and  hands, 
and  presently  she  began  to  show  signs  of  re- 
turning consciousness. 


BA  CK  IN  L  ON  DON.  3  05 


"  Now.  Miss  Clifford,  we  must  really  go  at 
once,"  whispered  the  maid  to  the  reluctant 
Blanche.  "  We've  stayed  much  too  long  al- 
ready. I  don't  know  what  Miss  Prosser  will 
think." 

The  woman  still  stood  with  folded  arms 
gazing,  open-mouthed,  at  the  group.  Grant 
again  pointed  to  the  poor  little  creature,  re- 
minding her  that  she  should  look  after  her  child. 
And,  at  last,  after  a  lingering,  pitying  glance 
at  the  poor  little  cowering  fairy  in  her  rags, 
Blanche  suffered  herself  to  be  led  away. 

They  found  Miss  Prosser  in  a  state  of  great 
anxiety  and  considerable  indignation  at  their 
delay.  The  maid  explained  the  matter  in  a 
few  prompt  words,  while  Blanche  stood  by  the 
little  Lady  Matilda  graphically  describing  the 
sad,  disenchanting  scene  which  had  followed 
her  first  visit  to  the  gorgeous  fairy  pantomime. 

And  thus  it  happened  that  Miss  Prosser's 
well-meant  effort  for  the  amusement  of  her  lit- 
tle pupil,  ended  in  Blanche  Clifford  getting  a 
sorrowful  glimpse  behind  the  tinsel  and  the 
glitter,  which  only  served  to  deepen  the 
thoughtful  shadow  that  had,  of  late,  been  steal- 
ing across  her  sunny,  childish  brow. 
20 


XIV. 
VISIT  TO  THE  FAIRY. 

ILAl^CHE'S  temporary  maid  was  a  very 
silent  woman,  and  was  therefore  re- 
garded by  her  little  mistress  as  an 
extremely  dull,  uninteresting  attendant. 
She  longed  for  Ellis's  return  to  her  post ;  for- 
getting all  the  passages-at-arms  which  had  taken 
place  between  them  during  her  reign.  And 
especially  since  the  evening  at  the  pantomime, 
she  wanted  to  have  somebody  to  talk  to  about 
the  poor  fairy.  Grant  merely  replied  to  her 
remarks  in  the  briefest  possible  way ;  and 
Blanche  decided  that  she  was  hard-hearted  as 
well  as  uninteresting,  for,  if  she  were  not,  she 
could  not  fail  to  express  her  sympathy  for  the 
poor  little  girl  who  seemed  in  such  pain,  and 
had  such  a  dreadful  mother.  The  remembrance 
of  the  little  pinched  face  quite  haunted  her. 
She  went  over  the  scene  again  and  again  in 
her  mind ;  and  wondered  where  her  home 
was,  and  what  would  become  of  her.  Miss 


VISIT  TO  THE  FAIRY.  307 

Prosser  assured  her  that  she  would  certainly 
be  taken  to  the  hospital,  and  very  well  cared 
for ;  but  still  Blanche  was  not  satisfied.  When- 
ever she  went  out  to  walk,  she  looked  eagerly, 
among  the  faces  in  the  crowd,  for  the  face  of 
the  terrible  mother,  and  she  resolved  that  how- 
ever dreadful  she  looked,  she  would  go  to  her 
and  inquire  about  her  little  girl. 

She  sometimes  wondered,  too,  whether  the 
poor  fairy  knew  anything  about  that  unseen 
Friend  whom,  in  these  last  days,  she  had  been 
learning  to  know  and  love.  It  would  be  such 
a  comfort  to  speak  to  Him  when  her  mother 
was  so  wicked  and  so  cruel,  Blanche  thought, 
and  she  did  not  forget  to  ask  the  Lord  Jesus 
Christ  to  make  the  poor,  bruised  fairy  well 
again,  and  to  soften  her  mother's  hard  heart. 

One  day,  in  particular,  she  had  been  think- 
ing a  great  deal  about  the  fairy;  and,  in  the 
evening,  after  she  was  comfortably  tucked  into 
bed,  her  maid  still  lingered  with  the  candle  in 
her  hand,  as  if  she  had  something  that  she 
wanted  to  say. 

"I've  been  to  see  a  little  girl,  to-day,  who 
has  not  such  a  comfortable  bed  as  you  have, 
Miss  Clifford,  though  her  poor  little  bones 
need  it  sore  enough." 

"  Ah  !  have  you,  Grant  ? "  replied  Blanche, 


308  MORAG. 

sitting  up  in  bed,  in  a  listening  attitude.  "  Do 
toll  me  about  her.  Who  is  she,  and  how  did 
you  come  to  know  her  ?  Is  she  as  poor  and 
pinched-looking  as  the  fairy,  do  you  think  ? " 

"  She  is  the  fairy,  Miss  Blanche — the  poor 
little  thing  we  saw  at  the  pantomime." 

"  O  Grant,  you  don't  mean  to  say  so  !  Have 
you  really  found  her  out  ?  I'm  so  very,  very 
glad.  It's  what  I've  been  longing  to  do.  Where 
does  she  live,  and  was  she  very  much  hurt  ? 
You  must  take  me  to  see  her  ;  indeed  you 
must,  Grant.  Do  tell  me  all  about  it  before 
you  go." 

The  maid  then  narrated  how,  the  day  be- 
fore, she  chanced  to  meet  the  terrible  moth- 
er, in  company  with  another  woman,  some- 
what less  tipsy  than  she,  and  able  to  give  Grant 
the  information  she  required  concerning  the 
poor  child,  who,  from  her  account,  was  still 
very  ill  and  very  destitute.  Grant  went  imme- 
diately, in  the  mother's  absence,  and  saw  the 
little  girl  in  her  wretched  home.  Her  leg  ap- 
peared to  have  been  very  badly  hurt ;  the  doc- 
tor, whom  a  kind  neighbor  had  once  brought 
to  see  her,  said  that  she  would  always  be  lame, 
and  the  child's  chief  regret  seemed  to  be  that 
she  would  never  be  able  to  act  at  the  pantomime 
any  more. 


VISIT  TO  THE  FAIR  Y.  309 


Blanche  listened  eagerly  to  all  the  informa- 
tion Grant  had  to  give,  and  before  she  went 
to  sleep  that  night  was  plotting  and  planning 
how  she  could  accomplish  a  visit  to  the  fairy's 
home. 

Next  day,  when  Miss  Prosser  announced 
that  she  would  dine  out  in  the  evening,  and 
had  made  arrangements  for  Grant  to  sit  in  the 
schoolroom  with  her  pupil,  Blanche  looked  up- 
on the  circumstance  as  the  most  delightful  op- 
tunity  for  carrying  out  her  plan.  Her  governess 
very  rarely  made  engagements  for  the  evening, 
or  left  her  pupil  to  her  own  devices ;  so  it  seemed 
to  Blanche  the  rarest  piece  of  good  luck  that 
she  should  be  going  out  to-night.  She  knew 
very  well  that  Miss  Prosser  would  not  give 
her  sanction  to  a  visit  to  the  wretched  little 
girl ;  and  though  Blanche  felt  doubtful  whether 
she  was  doing  right  in  thus  taking  advantage 
of  her  governess'  absence,  she  was  so  bent  upon 
seeing  the  fairy  again,  that  she  tried  only  to 
look  at  her  own  side  of  the  question. 

She,  did  not  divulge  her  plan  to  Grant  till 
Miss  Prosser  was  fairly  gone,  and  then  she 
brought  all  her  coaxing  artillery  to  bear  on  the 
maid,  who  at  last  reluctantly  yielded  to  her 
self-willed  little  mistress. 

It  was  quite  a  new  experience  for  Blanche 


310  MO  RAG. 

to  find  herself  out  walking  after  dark.     As  she 

o 

linked  her  arm  into  her  maid's,  and  they  be- 
gan to  thread  their  way  along  the  lamp-lit 
streets,  Blanche  felt  somewhat  of  the  feeling 
of  adventure  which  she  had  on  that  autumn 
morning  at  Glen  Eagle,  when  she  found  her- 
self alone  in  the  fir-forest.  And  there  was  a 
strange  resemblance"  between  the  occasions  in 
another  way,  though  Blanche  did  not  know  it. 
On  that  morning  she  went,  unconscious  of  it 
though  she  was,  to  bring  life  and  love  and 
hope  into  the  heart  of  the  lonely  little  maiden 
who  leant  against  one  of  the  old  fir-trees. 
And,  to-night,  she  was  going  on  a  similar  mis 
sion — not  along  the  pleasant  roads  of  Strath 
eagle  in  a  sunshiny  morning,  but  through  a 
dreary  November  drizzle  to  a  wretched  haunt 
of  misery,  where  a  poor  little  desolate  heart 
sorely  needed  some  ministry  of  love. 

Strange  to  say,  the  wretched  cellar  in  the 
narrow  court  was  not  so  far  distant  from  Mr. 
Clifford's  stately  mansion  as  might  have  been 
expected,  so  Blanche  and  her  guide  were  not 
long  in  reaching  the  fairy's  home. 

After  going  down  a  flight  of  steps,  Grant 
led  the  way  to  a  dreary  room.  Opening  the 
door  quietly,  Blanche  peeped  cautiously  in.  The 
poor  child  lay  on  a  heap  of  straw.  When  the 


Morag. 


VISIT  TO  THE  FAIRY.  311 


door  opened,  she  raised  her  head  and  eagerly 
scanned  the  visitors.  Evidently  recognizing 
Blanche,  she  fixed  her  sharp,  unchildlike  eyes 
on  her,  saying,  in  her  shrill  voice,  "  Have  you 
been  to  it  again?  Aren't  it  a  pretty  panto- 
mime? You  seemed  much  'appier  than  that 
t'other  'un.  We  noticed  you.  I  wish  I  was 
there, — I  do.  It's  wery  dull  a-lyin'  here. 
Tim's  never  looked  near,  neither."  Then, 
turning  to  the  maid,  she  said,  in  her  sharp, 
querulous  tone,  "Well,  s' pose  you've  brought 
me  a  bit  of  somethink  to  eat.  You  said  you 
would,  mind  ! " 

Blanche  felt  rather  repulsed,  but  she  has- 
tened to  uncover  a  dish  of  fruit  which  Grant 
had  placed  upon  a  stool  near  her,  and  handed 
some  to  the  little  girl,  who  seized  it  eagerly, 
saying,  "I  haven't  tasted  nothink  since  last 
night — seen  nobody — she's  been  at  it  again, 
drinkin'  dreadful.  And  what  made  a  pretty, 
fine  lady  like  you  come  to  see  me  ? "  she  asked, 
turning  to  survey  Blanche  more  closely  when 
her  hunger  was  somewhat  appeased.  "  'Ave 
you  got  anythink  else  for  'un  ?  " 

"O  poor  fairy!  I'm  so  sorry  for  you.  I 
came  to  see  you  because  I  was.  I  have  thought 
so  much  about  you  since  that  evening  at  the 
pantomime,  and  I  was  so  very  glad  when 


312  MORAG. 

Grant  told  me  she  had  found  your  home," 
said  Blanche,  kneeling  down  beside  the  child 
and  taking  the  little  thin  fingers  into  her 
hand.  The  little  girl  glanced  rather  suspi- 
ciously at  Blanche,  who,  while  Grant  went  to 
unfold  a  warm  blanket  she  had  brought,  came 
closer  and  whispered  .in  a  low,  nervous  tone, 
"  And  I  came  to  see  you  besides,  fairy,  be- 
cause I  wanted  so  very  much  to  tell  you 
about  a  good  Lord  Jesus,  who,  I'm  sure,  loves 
you,  and  will  be  very  kind  to  you.  Indeed 
it's  only  quite  lately  I've  come  really  to  know 
Him,  myself.  But  I'm  sure  He  loves  you  very 
much  even  now,  and  would  be  such  a  kind 
Friend  for  you  to  have." 

"Don't  b'lieve  it,"  replied  the  fairy,  as 
she  drew  her  hand  away,  which  Blanche  had 
been  stroking.  "We  see  lots  on  'em — Tim 
and  me — at  the  pantomime.  Most  likely  seed 
this  'un.  They  never  give  us  a  fardin,  though 
we  sometimes  beg  for  somethink  when  they're 
a-comin'  out  of  the  play.  But  we're  forbid 
to,  you  know,"  she  added,  nodding  and  wink- 
ing as  she  glanced  at  Blanche's  earnest  face. 

"  Oh !  but  indeed,  fairy,  you  are  quite 
mistaken.  You  couldn't  possibly  see  him  at  the 
pantomime.  He  is  not  to  be  seen  anywhere 
at  all  in  the  world  now.  But  though  we  can't 


VISIT  TO  THE  FAIRY.  313 


Bee  Him,  He  lives  still,  and  hears  us  when  we 
speak  to  Him  and  loves  us  so  much, — in- 
deed He  does." 

"  Don't  b'lieve  it.  Tim  says  them  kind 
hates  poor  folks,  and  that  he'd  choke  'em  if 
he  could — and  'opes  he'll  have  the  chance 
some  day." 

"  Oil !  but,  indeed,  fairy,  the  Lord  Jesus 
Christ  does  not  hate  anybody,"  gasped  Blanche. 
"I  know  He  loves  everybody,  and  just  died 
on  the  cross  a  very  cruel,  dreadful  death  be- 
cause He  loved  people  so  much.  And,  indeed, 
I  think  He  cares  especially  for  poor,  sick,  sad 
people,  who  want  a  friend." 

A  look  of  interest  seemed  to  come  into 
the  little  pinched  face,  and  Blanche  felt  en- 
couraged, and  continued,  in  a  pleading  tone — 
"  And  do  you  know,  fairy,  if  you  were  to 
ask  Him  for  anything,  He  will  really  hear  you, 
though  you  cannot  see  him  standing  there 
listening.  I  know  an  old  woman,  and  a  little 
girl  not  much  older  than  you,  and  they  both 
love  the  Lord  Jesus  Christ  so  much,  and  speak 
to  Him  a  great  deal.  And  I  do,  too ;  but 
I've  only  begun  a  little  while  ago.  But  I'm 
quite  sure  He  does  hear  us  and  help  us  too," 
said  Blanche  earnestly.  Her  faith  in  the  Sa- 
viour seeming  to  grow  stronger  every  moment 


314  MORAG. 

as  she  gazed  on  this  lost  child  whom  He  had 
come  to  seek  and  to  save. 

"  He'd  give  a  body  somethink,  you  say," 
said  the  fairy  presently,  looking  sharply  at 
Blanche  with  her  cunning  eyes,  after  she  had 
thought  over  her  words  for  a  little. 

"  Well  now,  lady,  I  say  it's  a  shabby  trick 
of  the  likes  of  you,  as  has  lots  of  nice  things,  to 
be  goin'  beggin'.  Look  'ere,  if  He  be  as  good 
as  you  say,  just  you  tell  Him  I  'm  a-lyin'  here 
wery  bad — and  all  about  it,  you  know.  And 
ask  somethink — a  trifle,  you  know,  to  begin 
with,"  added  the  child,  winking  knowingly,  as 
<she  stuck  her  tongue  into  the  corner  of  her 
mouth,  and  looked  into  Blanche's  face  to  see 
what  impression  this  practical  proposal  made. 
"  Look  'ere,  now ;  you  see  how  wery  bad  I 
want  a  dress — and  there's  my  boots  won't  stick 
to  my  feet  no  ways." 

Blanche  felt  sorely  discouraged.  She  saw 
that  she  had  evidently  not  been  able  to  impart 
to  this  dark  soul  a  glimmering  of  what  the  Lord 
Jesus  Christ  came  to  do.  She  did  want  so  very 
much  to  make  the  little  girl  understand  what  a 
real  helper  and  friend  He  was  ;  but  she  felt  as 
if  she  had  only  brought  confusion  into  the  poor 
child's  mind,  and  failed  to  represent  the  Saviour 
as  anything  more  than  a  bountiful  alms-giver. 


VISIT  TO   THE  FAIRY.  315 


It  must  be  her  fault  that  she  could  not  make  it 
plainer,  Blanche  thought ;  and  in  her  perplex- 
ity, she  lifted  up  her  heart  to  Him  who  turneth 
men's  hearts  as  rivers  of  waters,  whither  He 
will,  and  asked  that  His  life  and  light  and  love 
might  penetrate  the  poor  fairy's  darkened  soul. 

Blanche  Clifford  rose  from  her  knees  from 
beside  the  straw  pallet  with  a  very  despondent 
feeling ;  but  though  she  did  not  know  it,  her 
prayer  of  faith  was  of  better  service  to  the  lit- 
tle girl  than  her  clearest  teaching  or  most  elo- 
quently spoken  words. 

"  We  must  really  go  now,  Miss  Blanche," 
whispered  the  maid.  "  I  'm  afraid  of  your 
standing  in  this  damp  place  any  longer.  And 
it's  getting  very  late,  besides.  Do  come  now, 
Miss  Clifford." 

Blanche  made  a  gesture  of  impatience ;  but 
she  quickly  remembered  that  she  had  prom- 
ised Grant  she  would  leave  whenever  she  was 
asked,  and  so  she  prepared  to  go  without  fur- 
ther remonstrance. 

"  Good-bye,  fairy.  I'm  so  sorry  I  have  to 
go  now.  But  I  '11  try  to  come  to  see  you  again, 
one  day  very  soon.  And  1  shall  not  forget  to 
ask  the  Lord  Jesus  Christ  to  come  to  you,  and 
"to  love  you  and  teach  you  Himself,  and  give 
you  everything  that  you  need." ' 


316  MORAG. 

"Will  you,  though?"  replied  the  child, 
looking  keenly  at  Blanche's  earnest,  guileless 
face.  "  Don't  want  no  teachin'  much — dread- 
ful bad  for  the  dress  and  boots,  though ; ''  and 
then  she  added,  with  a  softer  expression  on  her 
face  than  Blanche  observed  before,  "  You're  a 
nice,  pretty  little  thing.  I  likes  you."  Then 
after  a  pause  she  continued,  in  a  reckless  tone, 
"  Don't  b'lieve  you'll  come  again,  nor  send 
Him  neither,  though.  Nobody  never  keeps  no 
promises.  Tim  hasn't ;  he's  never  looked 
near." 

"  Well,  fairy,  I  know  one  Person  who  does 
keep  promises,  at  any  rate,"  said  Blanche,  smi- 
ling. 

"  I  don't,"  nodded  the  child,  decisively. 
"  P'rhaps  you  keeps  your  promises.  You  do 
look  a  nice  little  thing,"  she  added,  putting  out 
her  thin  fingers,  and  taking  hold  of  Blanche's 
dress  in  a  caressing  way. 

"  No,  fairy  ;  I'm  sure  I  don't  always  keep 
my  promises.  It's  the  Lord  Jesus  Christ  I 
mean.  I've  just  been  trying  to  remember  one 
of  His  promises  to  tell  you,  and  I've  found  one 
— it's  this,  '  I  will  give  you  a  new  heart.'  Will 
you  try  to  remember  to  ask  Him  for  that  ? — 
do,  dear  fairy." 

"  A  new  'art.     Well,  did  I  ever — as  if  I 


VISIT  TO   THE  FAIRY.  317 


wasn't  needin'  a  new  dress  a  great  sight  more ; " 
and  the  child  threw  herself  back  among  the 
straw,  and  laughed  shrilly. 

Grant  had  gone  to  the  door  to  try  and  open 
it  in  the  absence  of  a  handle,  which  had  been 
wrenched  off,  and  Blanche  took  the  oppor- 
tunity to  whisper,  "  I  know  you  need  a  new 
dress  very  much,  poor  fairy ;  and  perhaps 
He'll  give  you  that,  too.  But  will  you  ask 
Him — quite  low,  if  you  like — just  when  you 
are  lying  here  all  by  yourself — to  give  you  a 
new  heart  ?  That  means  to  make  you  good 
and  happy  always,  you  know.  He  does  really 
hear,  though  you  cannot  see  Him.  "Will  you 
not  try,  fairy  ?  " 

"  Don't  mind  though  I  do.  Nothink  else 
to  do  lyin'  here.  I'm  to  ask  a  new  'art,  you 
say, — just  as  if  I  was  a-beggin'  from  a  gintle- 
inan  on  the  street,  I  s'pose  ?  I  know,"  said  the 
child,  with  a  nod.  "  Look,  she's  waitin'  for 
you — got  the  door  open.  Now,  see  you  ax 
Him  for  the  dress  and  boots." 


XV. 

A  RIDE  IN  THE  PARK. 

|KE  result  of  Blanche  Clifford's  visit  to 
the  pantomime-fairy's  home  was  a  bad 
cold,  which  showed  itself  next  morning. 
The  maid  immediately  explained  its 
probable  cause  to  Miss  Prosser,  taking  the  sole 
blrtme  on  herself  for  having  allowed  the  visit. 
But  Blanche  presently  gave  her  account  of  the 
matter,  which  represented  herself  as  the  sole 
culprit ;  so  the  governess  felt  doubtful  who 
she  should  blame,  and  finally  ended  by  scold- 
ing nobody.  She  listened  with  interest  to  the 
sequel  of  the  pantomime  scene,  as  Blanche 
gave  some  passages  from  her  visit  to  the  poor 
child,  pleading  that  Grant  might  be  sent  with 
some  needful  comforts  to  the  wretched  home. 
Miss  Prosser  readily  consented;  she  also  set 
about  making  arrangements  to  have  the  child 
taken  to  the  Sick  Children's  Hospital,  and  com- 
missioned Grant  to  try  to  find  the  mother,  and 
gain  her  consent  to  having  her  removed. 

Blanche  felt   rather   reproached  when  she 


A  RIDE  IN  THE  PARK.  319 


remembered  how  quickly  she  had  concluded 
that  her  governess  would  not  sympathize  with 
her  interest  in  the  lame  fairy,  after  she  found 
how  heartily  she  entered  into  all  her  plans  for 
helping  her. 

Throughout  the  day  she  was  kept  a  prisoner 
in  her  room  because  of  her  cold — a  state  of 
matters  which  she  generally  resented  greatly ; 
but  to-day  she  felt  quite  happy  and  busy,  as 
she  helped  to  fill  a  box  which  was  to  be  taken 
by  Grant  to  the  fairy's  home.  Blanche  did  not 
forget  the  special  request  which  the  fairy  beg- 
ged to  have  made  for  her,  though  neither  dress 
nor  boots  were  sent  in  the  box  that  morning. 
And  before  she  went  to  bed  that  night,  Blanche 
smiled  as  she  drew  out  her  own  private  purse 
to  see  how  much  pocket-money  was  left,  for 
she  thought  she  knew  what  she  would  like  to 
do  with  it. 

"  How  much  does  it  cost  to  buy  cloth  for  a 
dress,  Grant — not  a  silk  dress,  you  know,  or 
anything  of  that  kind,  but  some  nice  warm 
cloth  ? "  asked  Blanche,  nervously  handling  the 
two  gold  pieces  which  were  left  in  her  purse. 

"Well,  that  depends,  Miss  Clifford.  Of 
course  it  takes  more  for  a  grown-up  person 
than  for  a  child,"  replied  the  maid,  who  stood 
brushing  Blanche's  long  curls. 


320  MO  RAG. 

"I  wish  I  hadn't  bought  those  love-birds, 
Grant.  I  shall  get  no  inore  money  till  Christ- 
mas, you  see ;  and  I  do  so  want  to  buy  a  nice 
warm  dress  for  the  poor  fairy." 

"  But  I  daresay  Miss  Prosser  will  allow  you 
to  give  her  one  of  your  own  old  dresses,  Miss 
Blanche.  I  am  sure  there  are  plenty  of  them 
folded  away  up-stairs  that  you  will  never  wear 
again." 

"  Oh  yes,  I  daresay ;  and  perhaps,  after- 
wards, she  may  get  some  of  them.  But  this 
once  I  should  like  to  get  her  quite  a  new  dress 
— bought  and  made  all  for  herself,  you  know. 
You  would  shape  it,  would  you  not,  Grant? 
And,  do  you  know,  I  want  to  sew  it  all  myself 
— every  bit  of  it,"  added  Blanche,  in  a  confi- 
dential tone.  "  I  daresay  I  might  have  it  fin- 
ished before  the  poor  fairy  is  able  to  be  out 
again,  if  I  were  only  to  work  very  hard.  Don't 
you  think  so,  Grant  ? " 

Next  day  Miss  Prosser  was  consulted  and 
gave  her  consent,  though  she  thought  it, 
seemed  rather  an  odd  idea;  and  laughingly 
remarked  to  the  maid  that  she  might  quite 
count  upon  having  to  finish  the  garment,  as 
Miss  Clifford  had  never  been  known  to  hem 
half  a  pocket-handkerchief  in  her  life.  But 
it  might  amuse  her  while  her  cold  lasted  ;  so 


A  RIDE  IN  THE  PARK.  321 

Grant  was  commissioned  to  get  a  selection  of 
suitable  patterns  of  cloth,  from  which  Blanche 
selected  a  warm  blue  woollen  serge.  Then 
she  was  all  impatience  till  the  initiatory  stages 
of  shaping  should  be  gone  through,  and  she 
should  begin  to  sew. 

Such  a  diligent  little  woman  she  looked,  as 
she  sat  stitching  away,  her  fingers  all  stained 
with  the  blue  dye,  and,  all  the  while,  planning 
a  similar  garment  for  Morag,  as  a  Christinas 
present.  She  was  still  confined  to  her  room 
because  of  her  cold;  and  there  she  sat,  hour 
after  hour,  with  her  head  bent  over  her  work, 
sewing  so  unweariedly  that  Miss  Prosser  felt 
obliged  at  length  to  remonstrate,  suggesting 
that  she  should  betake  herself  to  some  amuse- 
ment now,  while  commending  her  for  her  dil- 
igence. Knowing  well  Blanche's  dislike  to 
sewing  of  any  kind,  her  governess  was  sur- 
prised to  see  such  devotion  to  a  piece  of  nee- 
dle-work which  did  not  seem  very  necessary, 
and  looked  most  unattractive ;  for  Blanche  had 
not  explained  why  she  was  so  anxious  that  the 
fairy  should  receive  quite  a  new  dress,  made 
all  for  herself. 

But  as  Miss  Prosser  looked  at  the  flushed, 
eager  little  face,  bending  over  the  rough  piece 
of  work  with  such  diligence  and  interest,  it 
21 


322  MORAG. 

gave  her  a  key  to  her  pupil  which  had  been 
missing  before ;  and  she  recognized  a  motive 
power  which  might  prove  a  better  thing  than 
a  love  for  fancy  work,  and  could  transform  the 
impulsive,  pleasure-loving  Blanche  into  a  brave, 
ministering  woman. 

The  next  day  Blanche  received  the  delight- 
ful and  unexpected  tidings  that  her  father 
would  return  home  on  the  following  evening. 
She  had  not  seen  him  since  that  eventful  morn- 
ing on  which  she  left  Glen  Eagle,  and  he  had 
stood  waving  a-  cheerful  farewell  in  the  old 
court-yard  of  the  castle  when  she  was  so  very 
sorrowful. 

Mr.  Clifford  intended  to  have  followed  his 
daughter  shortly  afterwards,  but  changing  his 
plans,  he  went  on  a  tour  abroad  with  some 
friends.  He  had  not  meant  to  return  to  Lon- 
don till  spring,  so  his  coming  was  a  delightful 
surprise  for  Blanche. 

Her  father  so  rarely  lived  for  any  length  of 
time  at  home,  that  she  had  become  so  far  accus- 
tomed to  his  absence ;  but  to  have  him  for  a 
little  \vhile  was  an  intense  pleasure — to  be 
made  the  most  of  while  the  visit  lasted  ;  and 
Blanche  built  many  castles  in  the  air  about  the 
pleasant  Christmas  time  there  could  not  fail 
to  be  when  her  papa  was  to  be  with  her.  But 


A  RIDE  IN  THE  PARK.  323 


instead  of  flitting  about  in  a  state  of  absolute 
idleness,  which  Miss  Prosser,  described  as  her 
usual  practice,  when  there  was  any  pleasant 
event  in  prospect,  Blanche  stitched  her  happy 
thoughts  into  the  fairy's  half  finished  garment, 
which  grew  rapidly  under  her  diligent  fingers  ; 
only  laying  it  aside  in  time  to  prepare  to  wel- 
come her  father. 

"  Why,  pussy,  how  brilliant  you  look ;  not 
even  the  breezes  of  Strath  eagle  gave  you  peo- 
nies like  these,"  said  Mr.  Clifford,  as  he  looked 
fondly  at  his  little  daughter,  who  clung  to  his 
arm  with  a  radiant  face,  as  they  mounted  the 
broad  staircase  to  the  drawing-room  together, 
after  he  had  divested  himself  of  his  travelling 
wraps. 

"  How  do  you  do,  Miss  Prosser  ?  T  must 
really  congratulate  you  on  your  pupil's  appear- 
ance," said  the  master  of  the  house,  as  he 
walked  into  the  drawing-room,  and  shook  hands 
with  the  governess. 

Blanche  presently  darted  off  to  inform  Grant 
that  her  papa  was  really  come,  and  was  at  this 
moment  talking  to  Miss  Prosser  in  the  draw- 
ing-room, where  it  might  be  possible  to  have 
a  peep  at  him  through  the  open  door.  She 
looked  upon  it  as  a  great  privation  for  Grant 
never  to  have  seen  her  papa,  and  took  for 


324  MO  RAG. 

granted  that  her  maid  would  be  full  cf  im 
patience  to  do  so. 

"Why,  Blanche,  how  you've  grown,  my 
child  !  "  exclaimed  Mr.  Clifford,  surveying  her 
as  she  re-entered  the  room,  while  he  stood 
wanning  himself  by  the  fire.  "  I  declare  you 
will  soon  arrive  at  the  blissful  long-dress  period 
that  has  been  your  ambition  for  so  long.  Now 
come  and  tell  me  what  mischief  you  have 
been  about  since  I  saw  you  last,  pussy  !  Let 
me  see,  where  was  that  ?  Ah  yes,  I  remem- 
ber— not  since  that  morning  you  and  Miss 
Prosser  left  Glen  Eagle.  And  have  you  quite 
forgotten  that  little  wild  woman  of  the  woods 
— what's  her  name,  eh,  Blanchie  ?  " 

Mr.  Clifford  noticed  that  the  peony  cheek 
flushed  even  a  deeper  red  as  Blanche  replied, 
"  .No,  papa ;  I  shall  never  forget  Morag  as  long 
as  I  live.  I  don't  see  how  I  ever  could.  We 
shall  go  back  again  to  Glen  Eagle  next  autumn, 
shan't  we,  papa  ? " 

"  Oh  yes ;  of  course.  I  have  taken  the 
shooting  for  three  years.  It's  a  first-rate  place. 
And  so  you  would  actually  like  to  go  back  to 
Glen  Eagk>,  Blanchie  ?  Did  you  not  find  it 
very  dull  sometimes  away  among  the  hills — 
confess  now  ? " 

"  Oh  no,  papa ;  indeed  I  didn't  find  it  dull 


A  RIDE  IN  THE  PARK.  325 


— not  near  so  dull  as  here.  I  don't  see  how 
I  could  ever  feel  dull  at  Glen  Eagle/'  said 
Blanche,  decidedly  ;  and  then  she  added,  "Well, 
perhaps  if  Kirsty  and  Morag  were  both  away 
from  the  Glen,  and  Shag  could  not  be  found 
to  ride  about  on,  then  it  might  be  rather  sad ; 
because,  you  see,  the  fir-wood  and  all  the  othei 
places  would  remind  me  of  them.  It  would  be 
too  sad  to  see  the  hut  without  Morag  living 
there,"  said  Blanche,  dreamily,  as  she  thought 
of  the  empty  room  which  she  saw  on  the 
morning  she  left  the  Glen,  and  of  how 
eagerly  she  had  searched  for  her  missing 
friend.  "  And  how  Kirsty's  cottage  would  look 
without  her,  I  cannot  imagine.  But  do  you 
know,  papa,  I  actually  dreamt  last  night  that  I 
went  to  see  her,  and  she  was  not  to  be  found, 
and  her  old  arm-chair  was  empty, — and  the 
nice,  cheery  fire  cold  and  black.  It  was  so  nice 
to  wake  and  find  it  was  only  a  dream,  after 
all !  "  added  Blanche,  with  a  sigh  of  relief. 

"  Well,  I  don't  think  either  of  your  friends 
have  migratory  habits  ;  so  you  are  likely  to 
find  them  among  their  native  heather  next 
year.  By  the  way,  Blancliie,  you  must  send  a 
Christmas  box  of  presents  to  your  friends  there. 
You  may  fill  it  with  whatever  you  like  best ; 
but  only  do  keep  a  corner  for  me.  I  want  to  send 


326  MO  RAG. 

some  present  to  the  boy  who  fished  you  out  of 
the  loch — Kenneth — isn't  that  his  name  ?  Do 
you  remember  that  adventure,  and  how  you 
frightened  us  all,  you  troublesome  young  per- 
son ?  By  the  way,  I  arranged  lefore  I  left 
Glen  Eagle  that  Dingwall  is  to  train  the  boy 
for  a  gamekeeper, — seeing  that  appears  to  be 
what  he  has  set  his  heart  on." 

Before  many  minutes  had  elapsed,  Blanche's 
lively  imagination  had  filled  a  box  of  such  prob- 
able dimensions  that  her  father  laughingly  as- 
sured her  it  would  be  much  too  heavy  to  be 
carried  up  the  hill  to  the  little  shieling  among 
the  crags. 

Presently  the  little  girl  fell  into  one  of  her 
meditative  moods,  saying  at  last,  with  a  sigh, 
"  Well,  papa,  I  daresay  Morag  and  Kirsty  will 
be  very  pleased  to  get  the  box  of  things,  and 
think  it  very  kind — and  all  that ;  but  though 
Kirsty  and  Morag  are  so  poor,  I  really  do  not 
think  they  ever  seem  to  be  anxious  for  any- 
thing they  have  not  got.  I  was  just  remem- 
bering how  Kirsty  one  day  said  to  me,  in  that 
nice,  queer  accent  of  hers,  '  Bairn,' — she  often 
called  me  that — '  a  man's  life  consisteth  not  in 
the  abundance  of  the  things  he  has.'  I  can't 
remember  exactly  what  we  were  talking  about 
at  the  time." 


A  RIDE  IN  THE  PARK.  32? 


"  Upon  ray  word  she  must  be  quite  a  phil- 
osopher, this  wonderful  Kirsty  !  "  said  Mr.  Clif- 
ford, laughingly,  as  he  stroked  Blanche's  curls. 

"No,  papa;  I  don't  fancy  she  is  learned 
enough  for  that ;  but  I  am  sure  she  is  a  Chris- 
tian,— and  is  that  not  better,  papa  ? " 

"  Ah,  I'm  afraid  we  are  getting  beyond  our 
depth  now,  pussy.  Come,  little  kittens  should 
not  look  grave,"  he  added,  for  Blanche  had  a 
dreamy  look  in  her  eyes  which  h&  did  not  care 
to  see. 

She  was  thinking  of  the  poor  fairy  who  was 
so  greedy  as  well  as  so  needy ;  and  presently 
she  began  to  tell  her  papa  a  little  about  her,  and 
how  she  had  gone  to  see  her  in  her  wretched 
home.  She  told  him,  too,  that  she  was  making 
a  dress  for  her — really  of  her  own  sewing ;  and, 
taking  for  granted  that  her  papa  would  be  much 
interested  in  the  garment,  she  brought  it  for 
his  inspection.  But  she  did  not  tell  him  why 
she  was  so  very  anxious  to  make  it  for  her, 
nor  that  it  was  meant  to  be,  perhaps,  the  first 
token  recognized  by  the  poor  fairy's  dark  soul 
of  that  Love  which  "  passeth  knowledge." 

The  father  and  daughter  spent  some  very 
happy  hours  together  on  this  first  evening  of 
their  reunion.  And  as  Mr.  Clifford  walked  up 
and  down  the  drawing-room,  after  Blanche  ha  1 


328  MORAG. 

left  for  the  night,  his  thoughts  dwelt  with  a 
new  joy  and  hope  on  the  only  child  of  his  house, 
whose  birth  had  left  his  home  so  desolate.  He 
remembered  with  what  a  sad  heart  he  took  for 
the  first  time  the  motherless  babe  into  his  arms, 
and  what  a  sorrowful  welcome  he  could  only 
give  to  her.  And  now  he  thought  with  pride 
of  what  a  sweet  child-woman  she  had  grown, 
how  much  she  seemed  to  have  deepened  lately, 
and  what  a  beautiful  woman  she  promised  to 
be !  Mr.  Clifford  smiled  to  think  of  the  time 
when  her  school-room  days  would  be  at  an  end, 
and  she  would  make  her  entrance  into  society 
to  be  his  companion ;  and  he  felt  as  if  life  were 
opening  pleasanter  vistas  before  his  eyes  than  it 
had  done  for  many  a  day. 

The  next  morning  was  bright  and  pleasant 
for  December ;  and,  to  Blanche's  great  delight, 
Mr.  Clifford  proposed  that  she  should  have  a 
holiday  in  honor  of  his  return,  and  go  some- 
where with  him.  After  some  deliberation, 
Blanche  decided  that  the  most  pleasant  way  to 
spend  the  morning  would  be  to  go  for  a  ride 
in  the  Park  with  her  papa. 

The  stately  bay  stood  at  the  door  at  the 
hour  appointed,  but  instead  of  the  little  brown 
Shag,  the  pretty  white  pony  Neige  awaited  his 
mistress.  Blanche  had  not  felt  so  happy  since 


A  RIDE  IN  THE  PARK.  329 


she  left  the  Highland  strath  as  she  did  when  she 
found  herself  riding  by  her  father's  side.  The 
yellow  fogs  had  quite  withdrawn  themselves; 
the  air  was  keen  and  bracing  now,  and  the  sun 
shone  brightly  on  the  winter  landscape.  The 
"  Row"  was  gay  with  riders  and  the  drive  with 
carriages,  taking  advantage  of  this  rare  Decem- 
ber day,  and  the  horses'  hoofs  rattled  pleasantly 
along  the  crisp,  frosty  ground. 

More  than  one  passer-by  glanced  at  the 
pleasant-looking  pair  of  riders  as  they  can- 
tered along  in  the  sunshine — Blanche  prattling 
to  her  papa  with  gay,  upturned  face,  her  long 
fair  curls  floating  about,  and  her  pretty  blue 
habit  forming  a  contrast  to  Neige's  snowy 
back,  while  her  father  glanced  down  at  her 
with  fondness  and  pride  reflected  on  his  hand- 
some face. 

On  they  rode,  fast  and  far;  for  the  day 
was  bright  and  their  spirits  were  high.  At 
last  Mr.  Clifford  reined  his  horse,  and  sug- 
gested that  they  should  turn  homewards. 

"  Now,  pussy,  you  do  purr  so  delightfully, 
and  we  have  had  such  a  pleasant  ride,  that 
I  think  we  shall  beg  Miss  Prosser  for  a  holi- 
day every  bright  day.  Wouldn't  that  be  a 
delightful  arrangement,  Blanchie  ? " 

"  It  would  be  very  nice,  papa.     But,  per- 


330  MO  RAG. 

haps,  there  may  be  no  more  bright  days  as 
long  as  winter  lasts,"  said  Blanche,  taking  a 
more  desponding  view  of  things  than  she  gen- 
erally was  apt  to  do. 

They  had  now  reached  home.  Mr.  Clifford 
dismounted,  and  lifted  his  little  daughter  from 
her  saddle. 

"  You  are  looking  tired,  Blanche,  darling. 
I  am  afraid  we  have  rather  overdone  it  to-day. 
I  quite  forgot  that  it  was  so  long  since  you 
had  ridden  before.  How  pale  you  are,  child  ! 
what  is  the  matter  ? "  said  Mr.  Clifford  in  a 
startled  tone,  as  he  looked  at  Blanche. 

"I  do  feel  rather  queer,  papa,"  replied 
Blanche,  faintly,  as  she  staggered  and  leaned 
against  her  father  for  support. 

Lifting  her  in  his  arms,  Mr.  Clifford  car 
ried  her  up  the  broad  stone  steps  to  the  hall 
door,  and  hurying  into  the  library,  laid  her 
gently  down  on  one  of  the  couches. 

Hardly  had  he  laid  her  there  when  she  be- 
came deathly  pale,  and  presently  a  sudden 
crimson  flow  came  from  her  white  lips,  stain- 
ing her  blanched  cheek  and  fair  clustering 
curls,  and  Blanche  Clifford  fainted  away  ! 


Z7L 
THE  BORDERS  OF  THE  FAR-OFF  LANJ>. 


R.  CLIFFORD  again  walked  up  and 
down  his  empty  drawing-room  where 
only  the  evening  before  he  had  been 
weaving  such  a  bright  future  for  him- 
self in  the  companionship  of  his  child ;  and  now 
the  doctors  had  just  left  him  with  the  terrible 
decision  ringing  in  his  ears — that  she  was  dy- 
ing! It  might  be  weeks,  and  even  months; 
but  the  fragile  frame  could  not  long  resist  the 
disease  that  had  been  stealthily  doing  its  deadly 
work  for  many  weeks. 

Blanche,  the  pride  of  his  heart,  the  heir  to 
his  fortune,  was  passing  away  from  him  !  Cov- 
ering his  face  with  his  hands,  the  poor  father 
seated  himself  on  the  couch  where  only  a  few 
hours  before  the  bright  face  had  been  gazing 
into  his,  and  the  merry  laugh  re-echoing 
through  the  now  silent,  deserted  room. 

Blanche  lay  pale  and  feeble  in  her  darkened 
chamber,  while  servants  flitted  about,  whisper- 


332  MORAG. 

ing  and  ministering,  and  Miss  Prosser  sat  tear- 
fully by  the  bedside. 

At  length  the  closed  drawing-room  door 
opened,  and  the  poor,  grief-stricken  father 
stood  beside  his  child.  They  might  leave  him 
— he  would  stay  and  watch  to-night,  he  said 
huskily,  as  he  seated  himself  beside  the  bed. 
Blanche  had  hardly  spoken  since  she  had  been 
taken  ill ;  but  the  sound  of  her  father's  voice 
seemed  to  rouse  her,  and,  opening  her  eyes,  she 
welcomed  him  with  her  old  sunny  smile. 

"  O  papa,  dear,  is  that  you  ?  It  seems  such 
an  age  since  I  saw  you.  I  must  have  been 
sleeping  all  day  long.  I  was  so  tired.  I  think 
we  did  go  too  far,  to-day  ;  but  it  was  so  nice, 
and  I  did  not  feel  at  all  tired  at  the  time.  But 
I  shall  be  all  right  to-rnorrow,  I'm  sure." 

"I  hope  so",  my  darling!  "  said  her  father, 
as  he  kissed  the  uplifted  face,  and  stroked  the 
curls  sadly. 

"  This  is  good-night,  I  suppose,  papa  ?  I 
have  been  sleeping  so  much  that  I  have  actu- 
ally no  idea  what  o'clock  it  is,"  said  Blanche, 
smiling. 

Mr.  Clifford  told  her  it  was  quite  bed-time 
now ;  and  when  she  turned  to  sleep  again,  he 
took  his  seat  quietly  beside  the  chintz-curtained 
little  bed,  promising  to  relinquish  it  towards 


THE  FAR-OFF  LAND.  333 

morning  to  Miss  Prosser,  who,  tearful  and  anx- 
ious, begged  to  have  a  share  of  the  watching. 

"When  all  was  silent  in  the  room  except  the 
flickering  fire,  and  Mr.  Clifford  sat  sad  and 
anxious  at  his  unwonted  duty,  Blanche  seemed 
to  get  wakeful  again,  and  presently  low  tones 
reached  his  ear,  meant  only  for  the  unseen 
Friend  whom  his  little  girl  had  in  these  last 
days  been  learning  to  know  and  love. 

Feebly  and  tremulously  she  whispered,  as 
she  sat  up  in  bed,  reverently  covering  her  face 
with  her  hands — "  O  Lord  Jesus  Christ,  I  am 
so  tired  to-night,  I  can't  remember  all  I  want 
to  say.  But,  long  ago,  upon  earth  you  used  to 
know  what  people  needed  before  they  ever 
asked,  and  I  am  sure  you  do  still.  Do  teach 
the  poor  sick  fairy  all  about  Thyself.  I  didn't 
seem  to  be  able  to  make  her  understand  about 
you ;  and  she  needs  a  Friend  so  very  much. 
Bless  my  own  dear  papa.  Make  him  so  happy 
here  in  London  that  he  will  never  think  of 
going  away  again.  I  am  sure  you  must  love 
him,  and  he  must  love  Thee;  but,  O  Lord 
Jesus  Christ,  I  would  like  him  to  speak  about 
Thee,  sometimes,  as  Kirsty  used  to  do. 

"  Help  me  to  be  good,  to  do  everything 
that  pleases  The®,  so  that  Thou  may  never 
turn  away  sorrowfully  from  me,  as  you  used  to 


334  MO  RAG. 

do  long  ago  when  people  would  not  follow 
Thee ; "  and  as  she  prayed,  Blanche  fell  asleep 
again,  and  all  was  silent. 

Mr.  Clifford  had  been  listening  to  his 
child's  words  with  bowed  head  and  shamed 
heart.  He  felt  that  he  was  one  of  those  from 
whom  the  Saviour  must  have  turned  away 
sorrowfully  many  a  time.  Through  many 
lands  and  in  many  ways  he  had  sought  rest 
and  solace,  forgetting  that  the  heart  which 
God  has  made  for  Himself  can  only  find  rest  in 
Him.  And  his  little  daughter  seemed  to  have 
sought  and  found  this  satisfying  portion  which 
he  had  been  seeking  vainly.  When  her  earthly 
father  and  mother  had  forsaken  her,  then  the 
Lord  had  taken  her  up;  and  now  He  was, 
perhaps,  going  to  take  her  to  Himself,  though 
she  did  not  know  it. 

Kneeling  beside  her  bed,  Mr.  Clifford 
prayed  that  God  would  pardon  the  wasted, 
sinful  past,  and  would  give  him  back  his  child, 
so  that,  together,  they  might  tread  the  heaven- 
ward path ! 

When  Miss  Prosser  appeared  to  claim  her 
share  of  the  vigil,  Blanche  was  sleeping  so 
soundly  that  any  watching  seemed  almost 
unnecessary.  And  in  the  morning  she  looked 
so  bright,  though  pale  and  fragile,  that  the 


THE  FAR-OFF  LAND.  335 


anxious  faces  round  her  caught  the  infectious 
brightness,  and  the  gloomy  forebodings  of  the 
previous  day  seemed  already  to  belong  to  the 
past. 

As  the  days  went  by,  Blanche  appeared 
really  to  gain  strength ;  and  although  there 
was  still  much  cause  for  anxiety  regarding  her 
health,  there  seemed  some  reason  to  hope  that 
the  fatal  issue  might  yet  be  warded  off. 

Mr.  Clifford  spent  much  of  his  time  in  his 
daughter's  sick-room.  And  during  these  De- 
cember days,  as  he  sat  by  his  daughter's  couch, 
he  listened  with  mingled  feelings  to  many  a 
childish  tale  of  joy  and  grief  that  had  marked 
the  years  in  which  he  had  borne  no  part. 

And  so  it  happened  that  these  days  of  ill- 
ness became  days  of  intense  enjoyment  to 
Blanche.  Ellis  had  returned  to  her  post,  and 
Blanche  confided  to  her  that  it  was  really  quite 
worth  while  being  ill,  and  having  to  take  all 
those  nasty  medicines,  to  have  her  papa  all  to 
herself  for  so  many  days. 

The  poor  fairy  was  now  comfortably  housed 
in  the  Hospital  for  Sick  Children,  and  Blanche 
looked  forward  to  being  able  to  pay  her  a  visit 
there,  one  day  before  long.  The  half-finished 
dress  was  again  taken  from  the  drawer,  where 
it  had  been  sorrowfully  laid  by  Grant  on  the 


336  MO  RAG. 

day  Blanche  was  taken  ill;  and  now  the  lit- 
tle fingers  were  busy  at  work  again,  though 
they  looked  pale  and  feeble  enough,  Mr.  Clif- 
ford thought,  as  he  watched  them,  all  stained 
with  blue  dye,  putting  the  finishing  stitches 
into  the  fairy's  promised  garment. 

Blanche  pleaded  very  hard  that  morning  to 
be  allowed  to  sew ;  and  notwithstanding  Miss 
Prosser's  remonstrances,  and  her  papa's  joke 
about  the  ponderous  piece  of  work  which  she 
had  undertaken,  she  worked  on,  till  at  last, 
with  a  wearied  smile,  she  held  out  the  finished 
dress  for  her  papa's  inspection. 

"  Look  now,  papa — it  is  finished  !  I  have 
really  put  in  the  last  stitch.  I  am  so  very  glad 
I  have  been  able.  I  felt  as  if  I  could  do  it  to- 
day, somehow,  and  that  was  what  made  me  so 
anxious  to  try,  though  Miss  Prosser  was  so  un- 
willing I  should  ;  but  I  don't  think  it  has  hurt 
me  at  all." 

"  Why,  Blanchie,  it  is  the  most  wonderful 
work  of  art  imaginable.  I  must  really  put  in 
my  claim  for  a  greatcoat  next.  The  doctor 
says  you  may  have  a  drive  to-morrow,  if  it  is 
fine,  and  we  will  go  to  the  Hospital ;  and  you 
shall  introduce  me  to  the  fairy,  and  present  the 
dress." 

"  I  hope  I  shall  be  able  to  go,  papa.     But 


THE  FAR-OFF  LAND.  337 


it  will  he  sent  whether  I  am  or  not,  won't  it  ? 
I  think  the  fairy  will  understand  why  I  want- 
ed so  much  to  send  it.  I  am  so  glad  it  is  fin- 
ished," she  added,  with  a  wearied  sigh,  as  she 
laid  the  dress  on  a  chair,  and  went  to  lie  on 
the  sofa,  which  she  rarely  did  of  her  own  ac- 
cord. 

Mr.  Clifford  made  no  remark,  but,  as  he 
glanced  at  her  anxiously  from  under  his  news- 
paper, he  could  not  help  noticing,  as  she  lay 
quietly  there,  that  the  little  face  looked  worn 
and  the  outline  of  the  cheek  sharper  than  hith- 
erto. She  lay  with  her  eyes  shut  for  some 
time,  and  presently  she  said,  in  a  low,  firm 
tone,  as  she  looked  up — 

"  Papa,  dear,  come  to  me,  I  want  to  speak 
to  you." 

Mr.  Clifford  was  not  a  nervous  man,  but 
his  hand  shook  as  he  laid  down  his  newspaper 
and  went  to  his  daughter's  side,  for  there  was  a 
foreboding  of  trouble  in  his  heart. 

Her  arm  was  round  his  neck,  but  she  did 
not  see  his  face  as  she  said,  softly — 

"  Do  you  know,  papa,  it  makes  me  very 
sad,  as  well  as  glad,  to  look  at  that  finished 
piece  of  work.  Shall  I  tell  you  why  ?  It  seems 
to  me  it  is  the  very  first  useful  thing  I  have 
ever  done  in  my  life ;  and  papa,  dear,  do  you 


338  MO  RAG. 

know  it  will  be  the  last '{ "  and  the  blue-stained 
fingers  played  nervously  with  her  father's  hand 
as  she  spoke. 

Mr  Clifford  was  going  to  interrupt  her,  but 
Blanche  went  on — 

"  Yes,  papa  ;  I  know.  I  have  known  it  for 
two  days  now.  I'll  tell  you  how  I  came  to 
know.  I  overheard  Ellis  telling  somebody 
that  the  doctor  said  I  was — dying.  Dear, 
kind  Ellis ;  I'm  sure  she  would  be  sorry  if  she 
knew  I  heard  that ;  but  she  must  not  be  told. 
I  am  so  glad  that  I  do  know  just  a  little  be- 
fore, though  it  did  make  me  feel  very  sad  at 
first.  Indeed,  I  cried  the  whole  night  in  the 
dark,  papa ;  but  now  I  feel  as  if  it  were  all 
right.  And  I  don't  think  I'm  afraid  to  die 
now,  as  I  should  have  been  when  I  fell  into 
the  loch,"  she  added,  in  a  faltering  tone. 

"  My  darling,  you  must  not  talk  so.  And, 
besides,  Ellis  was  not  correct.  You  have  been 
very  ill,  but  the  doctor  thinks  you  are  much 
better  now ;  and  when  spring  days  come,  my 
little  Blanche  will  blossom  again  with  the  flow- 
ers." 

"  No,  papa  dear ;  I  don't  really  think  I  am 
better.  I  shall  never  get  well  again,  I  know. 
But,  as  I  lay  here,  I  was  thinking  how  sad  it 
seemed  to  go  away  from  the  world  without 


THE  FAR-OFF  LAND.  3;! 9 


having  been  of  any  use  to  anybody.  And 
just  lately,  too,  I  have  seemed  to  understand 
better  what  life  was  meant  for,  and  to  be  inter- 
ested in  things  I  used  not  to  care  about.  Do 
you  know  why  I  was  so  anxious  to  make  the 
dress  for  the  poor  lame  fairy,  papa?  I  think 
I  should  like  to  tell  you,"  and  some  of  her 
old  brightness  returned  as  she  told  the  story  of 
her  visit  to  the  poor  child  in  the  comfortless 
abode.  "  She  was  so  sad  and  poor  that  I  felt 
sure  she  would  be  glad  to  hear  about  the  Lord 
Jesus  Christ.  Wouldn't  you  have  thought  so, 
papa  ?  But  she  did  not  seem  to  care,  nor  to 
believe  that  He  loved  her  at  all.  At  last  she 
said  that  if  lie  were  to  send  her  a  new  dress 
and  boots,  she  might  believe  He  was  good  and 
kind.  But  I  am  afraid  I  was  not  able  to  make 
her  understand  about  the  Lord  Jesus  Christ. 
I  wonder  how  I  can  best  tell  her  about  Him, 
papa  ?  if  I  am  able  to  go  to  see  her  again  be- 
fore " — and  Blanche's  voice  faltered. 

"  My  own  darling !  you  must  not  speak  so ! 
You  must  try  to  get  well,  for  my  sake,  Blanchie. 
What  should  papa  do  without  his  little  girl? 
And  I  am  afraid  I  'do  not  know  the  Lord  Je- 
sus Christ  really  any  more  than  the  poor  pan- 
tomime .airy !  You  must  stay  with  me,  my 
child,  and  we  will  seek  Him  together ! " 


340  MORAG. 

"  Dearest  papa,  He  does  teach  people  so 
wonderfully ;  I  am  sure  He  will  teach  you  to 
know  and  love  Him.  But  I  thought  you 
must  surely  have  loved  the  Lord  Jesus  Christ 
ever  so  long  ago,"  said  Blanche,  musingly, 
and  then  she  lay  silent  for  several  minutes. 

Presently  she  turned  to  her  father,  with  a 
face  full  of  love  and  pity,  and  laying  her  thin 
fluttering  fingers  on  his  arms,  she  said,  "  Papa, 
dear,  you  will  take  Him  for  your  friend  now, 
will  you  not  ? — and  He  will  come  and  be  very 
near  you  when  I  am  far  away.  Kirsty  says 
He  was  such  a  friend  to  her  when  she  was 
left  sad  and  lonely  in  her  cottage" — and  wTith 
the  mention  of  Kirsty's  name  there  came  a  rush 
of  memories  that  made  Blanche's  eyes  till  with 
tears. 

Her  father  noticed  it,  and  a  pang  of  jeal- 
ousy shot  through  his  heart.  She  had  spoken 
such  sad  words,  calm  and  tearless;  and  it 
seemed  hard  that  the  thought  of  those  peasant 
friends,  whom  she  might  see  no  more  on  earth, 
should  be  a  sharper  sorrow  to  the  child's  heart 
than  the  parting  from  himself. 

And  so  far  he  judged  truly.  Blanche  loved 
her  father  dearly,  but  she  did  not  guess  how 
great  was  his  love  for  her,  nor  how  shadowed 
his  life  would  be  if  she  were  gone. 


THE  FAR-OFF  LAND.  341 


As  she  gazed  at  the  bowed  head  beside  her, 
Blanche  realized  for  the  first  time  how  great 
and  terrible  the  coming  sorrow  was  to  her 
father,  and  she  began  to  understand  how  true 
it  is  that  in  the  partings  of  life  "  theirs  is  the 
bitterness  who  stay  behind." 

The  exertion  of  talking  seemed  to  have 
been  too  much  for  the  fragile  frame.  Pres- 
ently a  violent  fit  of  coughing  came  on,  and 
again  that  terrible  crimson  flow  streamed  from 
the  white  lips  and  on  the  deathly  face ! 
*•*#•*# 

The  winter  storm  had  now  set  in,  and  the 
weather  was  cold  and  dark  and  cheerless ;  but 
the  interior  of  Blanche's  room  looked  warm 
and  bright  as  Mr.  Clifford  walked  into  it,  on 
his  return  from  his  lonely  ride. 

On  the  floor  there  lay  strewed  the  Christ- 
mas gifts  for  Glen  Eagle,  and  from  her  sofa 
Blanche  was  having  an  inspection  of  them 
before  they  were  sent  away.  Ellis  was  doing 
duty  as  show-woman ;  and  Blanche's  old  glee- 
ful laugh,  which  had  become  a  rare  sound  now, 
was  heard  occasionally  as"  she  listened  to  her 
maid's  remarks  concerning  the  various  beau- 
tiful presents,  as  she  held  them  up  for  inspec- 
tion. 

Welcoming  her  papa  with  the  old  bright 


342  MO  RAG. 

smile,  Blanche  beckoned  him  to  come  and  see 
the  nice  fur  footstool  which  Miss  Prosser  had 
that  morning  bought  for  Kirsty's  cottage. 

Mr.  Clifford  looked  very  sad  as  he  came 
forward  and  took  his  place  by  his  daughter's 
couch.  He  could  not  help  contrasting  the  pale 
fragile  form  lying  there,  with  the  ringing  child- 
ish laugh,  which  caused  him  almost  to  forget,  for 
the  moment,  the  sad  reality  which  these  weeks 
had  brought. 

Blanche's  quick  eye  always  detected  her 
father's  sadness,  and  she  used  to  try  to  chase 
it  away  by  all  the  loving  wiles  which  she  could 
devise.  To  the  others  round  her  she  often 
talked  of  dying;  but,  since  the  time  that  she 
saw  her  father's  distress  when  the  subject  was 
approached,  she  never  had  the  courage  to  intro- 
duce it  again,  though  there  were  many  things 
she  wanted  to  say  to  him. 

She  kept  watching  Ellis  with  wistful  eyes 
as  she  gathered  and  carried  away  from  her 
room  the  scattered  gifts  for  the  peasant  friends 
she  loved  so  well. 

After  they  were  "all  cleared  away,  she  lay 
quietly  back  on  the  sofa,  and  there  was  a  far- 
away look  in  her  eyes  that  made  her  father  un- 
willing to  ask  where  her  thoughts  were.  Pres- 
ently she  turned  to  him,  and  said  in  a  low, 


.THE  FAR-OFF  LAND.  343 


nervous  tone,  "  Papa,  I  want  to  ask  you  some- 
thing. May  I  do  exactly  as  I  like  with  all  my 
own  things  ?  " 

"  Certainly,  darling.  What  treasure  do 
you  wish  to  send  to  the  little  Morag?  But 
I  thought  Ellis  was  doubtful  if  she  could  stow 
all  the  things  you  have  already  sent, — eh, 
Blanchie?" 

"  Oh,  I  did  not  mean  in  the  box,  papa ! 
But  you  know  it  cannot  be  very  long  now 
before  I  have  to  leave  you — and  everything," 
and  Blanche's  fluttering  fingers,  so  wan  and 
wasted  now,  played  nervously  with  her  father's 
hand  as  she  spoke. 

"  Of  course  you  will  keep  everything  you 
want — and  Miss  Prosser  and  Ellis  will,  too. 
But  I  should  like  Morag  to  have  some  of  my 
things  when  I  am  gone.  She  has  so  fc\v  pretty 
things  in  the  hut ;  and  besides,  I  really  do  think 
she  would  like  to  have  them,  just  because  they 
are  mine,  and  they  will  remind  her  of  me  when 
Pm  far  away ; "  and  Blanche  glanced  round  the 
room  at  the  pretty  statuettes  and  pictures,  and 
the  rows  of  nicely-bound  books,  of  which  she 
used  to  tell  Morag,  as  they  rambled  among  the 
woods  and  braes  of  Glen  Eagle. 

"  Yes,  my  darling  ;  Morag  shall  have  what- 
ever you  like,"  replied  Mr.  Clifford  with  an 


344  MORAG. 

effort,  as  soon  as  he  was  able  to  speak ;  and 
presently  he  continued :  "  My  child,  perhaps 
I  should  tell  you  that  you  have  a  great  deal 
more  to  give  away  than  your  books  and  pictures. 
You  are  what  people  call  an  heiress,  Blanchie. 
Your  mother  left  you  a  large  fortune,  and,  be- 
sides, you  will  have  all  that  belongs  to  me. 
Ah,  my  child  !  will  you  not  live  ? — I  cannot 
let  you  go  !  There  is  such  a  bright  future 
in  store  for  you — so  many  hopes  bound  up  in 
this  dear  life ! " 

"  Yes,  papa,  dear ;  the  future  is  bright,"  re- 
plied Blanche,  smiling.  "  I  was  reading  about 
it  only  this  morning — 'an  inheritance,  incor- 
ruptible, undefiled,  and  that  fadeth  not  away.' 
I  learnt  the  words.  It  was  strange  I  never 
remember  hearing  them  till  to-day.  But  I 
suppose  God  just  speaks  His  own  words  to  us 
when  we  need  them  and  will  listen  to  them. 
It's  all  right,  papa,  dear,"  she  continued  as  she 
put  her  arm  round  her  father's  neck,  as  he  sat 
with  his  head  resting  on  his  hand,  absorbed  in 
his  own  sad  thoughts.  "  I  know  the  Lord 
Jesus  Christ  will  comfort  you  when  I  am  gone. 
And  then,  you  know,  papa  dear,  you  will  not 
be  so  very  long  in  coming,  and  I  shall  be  wait- 
ing for  you,  oh !  so  eagerly,  and  we  shall  be  so 
happy  together  in  the  home  of  God  ! " 


THE  FAR-OFF  LAND.  345 


"  Is  it  not  rather  difficult  for  rich  people  to 
be  good,  papa  ? "  asked  Blanche,  after  she  had 
laid  pondering  a  short  time.  "  If  I  had  lived, 
perhaps  I  might  have  grown  into  a  grand  lady 
— like  some  of  Ellis's  mistresses  that  she  tells 
me  about — and  got  selfish  and  bad  when  I 
grew  old.  But  now,  papa,  dear,  I  shall  always 
be  your  own  foolish  little  Blanchie,"  and  she 
nestled  in  her  father's  arm,  as  he  stroked  the 
long  fair  curls — the  last  symbol  of  health  that 
remained. 

After  she  had  again  laid  musing  for  some 
time,  Blanche  sat  up,  and  with  some  of  her  old 
eagerness  she  said — 

"  Papa,  I've  just  been  thinking  that  Morag 
is  so  gentle,  and  so  clever,  and  so  fond  of 
books,  that  I'm  sure  she  would  grow  up  very 
learned  if  she  were  educated.  I  know  she 
would  like  lessons  a  great  deal  more  than  I  used 
to  do,  and  be  much  more  diligent.  Have  I 
enough  money  to  educate  Morag,  papa? " 

"  Yes,  darling,  quite  enough ;  and  if  you 
wish  it,  it  shall  be  done,"  replied  Mr.  Clifford 
huskily,  for  this  conversation  was  almost  too 
painful  for  him  to  continue. 

"  But  after  all,  papa,  very  clever  people,  who 
know  everything,  are  not  always  very  happy  or 
good — are  they  ?  And,  besides,  I  really  do  not 


346  MO  RAG. 

see  how  her  father  and  Kirsty  could  get  on 
without  Morag.  And  then  she  is  so  faithful 
and  loving — perhaps  she  could  never  be  per- 
suaded to  leave  them,  to  be  made  a  lady  of  in 
the  world  beyond  her  mountains,"  said  Blanche, 
smiling,  as  the  image  of  her  shy  little  mountain 
friend  rose  before  her. 

"  No,  papa,  dear,"  she  said  presently,  after 
thinking  quietly  for  a  little ;  "  I  really  think  we 
must  give  up  that  idea  after  all.  I  do  believe 
the  Lord  Jesus  Christ  would  like  best  that  Mo- 
rag  should  stay  in  the  Glen  and  make  her 
father  and  Kirsty  comfortable  and  happy  as 
they  get  older.  But  I'll  tell  you  what  we 
might  do,  papa,  dear.  "Would  there  be  enough 
money  to  build  a  nice  new  house  for  Morag 
and  her  father  ?  That  hut  among  the  crags 
must  tumble  to  pieces  one  day  before  long,  I 
should  think,  though  certainly  Morag  does  make 
it  look  as  nice  as  possible,"  added  Blanche,  pa- 
thetically, for  she  remembered  well  the  morning 
on  which  she  saw  it  last. 

Her  father  listened  with  a  sad  interest  as 
Blanche  told  the  story  of  that  day's  troubles, 
and  how  sorry  she  had  been  to  leave  Glen 
Eagle  without  taking  farewell  of  her  mountain 
friend.  And  as  she  told  how  she  had  hurried 
m>  the  hill  to  the  little  shieling  among  the 


THE  FAR-OFF  LAND.  347 


crags,  only  to  find  it  empty,  and  glowingly 
described  the  pleasant  interior  into  which  her 
friend  had  transformed  the  once  wretched  hut, 
the  scene  seemed  to  come  vividly  to  her  mem- 
ory, and  to  bring  with  it  an  intense  desire  for 
life,  as  she  lay  on  the  borders  of  the  far-off 
land! 

Some  hot  tears  stole  down  her  cheeks,  and 
with  quivering  lip  and  clasped  hands  she  gazed 
wistfully  into  her  father's  face  as  she  said — 

"  O  papa !  if  I  could  only  walk  one  after- 
noon with  Morag  in  the  fir-wrood,  I  almost 
think  I  should  feel  well  again ! " 


xm 

MORAG'S  JOURNEY  INTO   THE  WORLD   BE- 
YOND THE  MO  UNTAIN8. 

|j  T  was  a  wild  night  at  Stratheagle.  An 
)j|  eddying  wind  had  been  blowing  the 
deep  snow  into  wreaths,  and  fresh  fall- 
ing flakes  were  whirling  about  in  all 
directions  through  the  darkness. 

All  trace  of  the  road  through  the  mountain 
pass  had  disappeared  ;  and  it  would  have  fared 
ill  with  the  Honorable  Mr.  Clifford's  slim 
English  footman,  with  his  elegant  calves,  as  he 
made  his  way  towards  the  keeper's  shieling 
among  the  crags,  if  he  had  not  taken  the  pre- 
caution of  securing  a  guide  from  the  village 
below. 

The  steep  ascent  to  the  hut  was  almost 
impassable,  and  more  than  once  the  man  seemed 
disposed  to  give  it  up  and  beat  a  retreat  to  his 
quarters  at  the  village  without  fulfilling  his 
mission.  But  his  more  stalwart  companion 
cheered  him  on,  assuring  him  at  intervals  that 


BEYOND   THE  MOUNTAINS.  349 


it  was  only  a  "  mile  and  a  bittock,"  and  point- 
ed to  the  light  in  the  window  of  the  hut  long 
before  it  shed  any  encouraging  ray  on  the 
exhausted  flunkey,  who  went  stumbling  and 
grumbling  up  the  hill  through  the  blinding 
drift,  feeling  himself  the  most  ill-used  of  per- 
sons to  have  been  sent  to  such  regions  in  such 
weather. 

The  light  from  the  window  of  the  hut  was 
at  last  really  visible,  shimmering  through  the 
darkness,  and  soon  the  benighted  travellers 
stood  under  the  snowy  crags  which  towered 
above  the  little  shieling. 

Our  old  friend  Morag  was,  meanwhile, 
comfortably  seated  in  the  ingle-neuk,  reading 
laboriously  from  one  of  her  ancient  yellow- 
leaved  volumes,  little  dreaming  what  was  in 
store  for  her  to-night.  Her  father  sat  near  her 
smoking  his  evening  pipe,  but  he  was  not 
staring  into  the  fire  in  idleness  and  grim  si- 
lence as  of  old.  He  seemed  at  the  present  mo- 
ment quite  absorbed  in  a  newspaper,  the  date 
of  which  was  uncertain,  seeing  it  had  been 
torn  otf  when  it  was  used  for  lining  a  packing- 
case  of  game  during  autumn.  But  though  it 
was  not  a  "  day's  paper,"  it  seemed  to  satisfy 
the  keeper's  literary  cravings,  and  he  had  care- 
fully perused  it  from  beginning  to  end  by  the 


350  MO  RAG. 

light  of  the  fire  of  peat  and  pine,  which  blazed 
brightly  on  the  hearth. 

The  snow  made  a  warm  covering  round  the 
wall,  and  a  secure  white  thatcli  on  the  porous 
roof,  so  it  happened  that  to-night  the  hut  was 
really  a  more  comfortable  abode  than  it  had 
often  proved  during  autumn-days. 

Morag  jumped  to  her  feet  when  she  heard 
the  sound  of  voices  and  the  loud  knocking ; 
and  now  she  stood  gazing  at  her  father  with  a 
look  of  startled  surprise. 

Laying  down  his  pipe,  the  keeper  prepared 
to  open  the  door,  but  before  he  had  time  to 
do  so,  the  injured  footman  stood  in  the  middle 
of  the  floor,  stamping  the  snow  from  his  feet, 
and  inspecting  his  precious  person  generally,  as 
he  muttered  expressions  of  indignation  concern- 
ing this  unpleasant  piece  of  service  which  had 
fallen  to  his  lot. 

Morag  recognized  the  visitor  at  once,  and 
forgetting  her  shyness,  she  sprang  forward, 
saying,  in  low,  eager  tones,  "  Will  ye  no  be 
frae  the  wee  leddy  o'  the  castle  ?  I'm  thinkin' 
there  maun  be  something  wrang.  Is  she  no 
weel  ? " 

"  Miss  Clifford,  I  presume  you  mean,  little 
girl.  Well,  you  are  right,  so  far.  I  come 
from  her  father — my  master,  the  Honorable 


BEYOND   THE  MOUNTAINS.  351 


Mr.  Clifford.  I  think  I've  got  a  letter  for  you ; 
but  'pon  ray  word  it's  been  at  the  risk  of  my 
life  bringin'  it  here.  S'pose  I'd  better  read  it 
myself?"  said  he,  looking  round  patronizingly 
at  the  keeper. 

And  without  waiting  for  a  reply,  he  tore 
open  the  closed  envelope,  amid  the  smoulder- 
ing indignation  of  the  keeper,  to  whom  it  was 
evidently  addressed,  and  began  to  read  as  fol- 
lows : — 

"  Will  Morag  come  to  London  immediately  to  see  her 
little  f rieiid  Blanche,  \\  ho  is  very  ill  and  wants  to  see 
her?  The  Keener  may  safely  trust  his  daughter  to  the 
servant,  who  has  got  all  directions  how  to  proceed. 

"  ARTHUR  CLIFFORD." 

"Quite  safe  with  me,  depend  upon  it;  the 
master  is  quite  right  there ! "  said  the  servant, 
smiling  blandly  at  the  confidence  reposed  in  him. 

"  Well,  little  girl,  what  do  you  say  to  it  ? 
You  will  come,  I  suppose?  The  master  has 
set  his  'art  on  it,  sure  enough — or  he  would 
not  have  been  sendin'  me  to  the  hends  of  the 
earth  on  such  a  night  as  this.  I  have  a  trap 
hired  at  the  village,  all  ready  to  start  in  the 
morning.  What  do  you  say  to  it,  keeper? — 
rather  sudden,  for  such  quiet  folks  as  you,  ain't 
it?"  continued  the  man,  smilingly  glancing  at 
the  sileat,  offended  keeper. 


352  MORAG. 

Morag  sat  thinking  in  dumb  silence  for  a  • 
little,  but  presently  she  sprang  up,  and  taking 
hold  of  her  father's  arm,  she  said  in  her  low, 
eager  tone,  "  O  father !  ye  mustna  hinner  me  ; 
the  bonnie  wee  leddy  is  ill,  and  wantin'  me — 
and  I  maun  gang !  " 

Then  turning  to  the  messenger,  Morag 
asked  imploringly,  "  She's  no  jist  sae  verra  ill, 
is  she?" 

"Bad  enough,  I  guess.  'Tis  a  pity — such 
a  pretty  little  miss  she  was  getting  to  be. 
Master  so  bound  up  in  her,  too !  " 

"  Well,  keeper,  how  is  it  to  be  ? — for  I've 
got  to  go  down  that  shockin'  precipice  again 
— and  it's  getting  late.  I'll  take  good  care  of 
the  young  'un,  you  may  be  sure.  And,  depend 
upon  it,  you  won't  be  the  loser,  noways,  by 
fallin'  in  with  master's  views,"  added  the  ser- 
vant, with  a  nod  of  meaning  which  made  the 
proud  keeper  resolve  instantly  that  his  daugh- 
ter should  not  obey  the  summons. 

But  never  before  had  Morag  been  so  wildly 
wilful  on  any  matter.  Her  father  felt  quite 
taken  by  storm  as  he  listened  to  her  pleadings, 
though  he  could  not  yet  be  persuaded  to  give 
his  consent. 

The  servant  stood  waiting  with  evident  im- 
patience, and  at  last  a  compromise  was  arranged, 


BEYOND   THE  MOUNTAINS.  353 


to  the  effect  that  if  Morag  was  to  accompany 
him,  she  would  be  brought  to  the  village  inn 
by  her  father  next  morning,  before  the  hour  of 
starting. 

It  was  almost  midnight  when  Dingwall 
might  be  seen  toiling  across  the  moorland, 
through  the  snow,  in  the  direction  of  Kirsty's 
cottage.  The  old  woman  and  he  were  fast 
friends  now,  and  he  wanted  to  ask  her  advice 
on  the  startling  proposal  concerning  the  little 
girl  who  was  so  precious  to  them  both. 

He  found  Kirsty  sitting  quietly  reading  her 
Bible  beside  the  dying  peat  embers.  Taking 
off  her  spectacles,  she  listened  placidly  to  the 
story,  and  presently  she  replied  in  low,  em- 
phatic tones,  "Dinna  limner  the  bairn,  keeper. 
Lat  her  gang,  by  a'  means.  'Deed,  I'm  near 
aweai's  o'  gaen  mysel'.  The  bonnie  larabie — 
an'  sae  He's  til  tak'  her  hame  til  Himsel? 
Weel,  weel,  I  thocht  as  muckle,  whiles,  when 
she  was  comin'  aboot  us  wi'  a'  her  winsome 
ways.  May  she  hae  been  early  seekin'  the 
face  she  will  maybe  see  gin  lang ! '' 

So  Morag  gained  her  point.  Her  travelling 
preparations  were  not  long  in  being  made; 
and,  though  she  had  not  many  hours  of  sleep 
that  night,  she  was  all  ready  to  go  down  the 
hill  with  her  father  in  the  morning. 


354  MO  RAG. 

Just  before  she  started,  Kenneth  came  run- 
ning up  to  the  shieling  in  breathless  haste. 
He  carried  with  him  the  old  tartan  plaid 
which  had  done  such  sad  duty  in  the  fir-wood. 
Wrapping  it  carefully  round  Morag,  he  stood 
watching  her  wistfully,  as  she  started  in  the 
grey  dawn  of  a  December  morning  on  this 
first  journey  into  the  world  beyond  the  moun- 
tains ! 

***** 

It  was  Christmas  Eve.  A  fresh  fall  of 
snow  lay  spotless  and  shining  on  the  ground. 
The  moon  was  giving  a  clear,  plentiful  light, 
and  as  it  shimmered  on  the  snow-covered 
streets  and  squares,  it  seemed  suddenly  to  trans- 
form them  into  groups  of  stately  marble  palaces. 

A  pleasant  crimson  glow  came  from  the 
close-curtained  \\  indows  of  Mr.  Clifford's  Lon- 
don mansion,  shedding  a  warm,  rosy  light  on 
the  white  crisp  pavement  in  front,  where  stood 
a  group  of  German  lads  singing  a  fine  rolling 
Christmas  carol. 

Little  did  they  guess  how  dreary  and  ten- 
antless  those  rooms  were  to-night,  which  seemed 
to  them  to  enclose  such  a  paradise  of  delights 
as  they  kept  gazing  up  to  the  windows,  in  the 
hope  of  an  appreciative  audience  from  within 
the  crimson  glow. 


BEYOND  THE  MOUNTAINS.  355 


They  did  not  know  that  the  sorrowful  in- 
terest of  the  household  was  centred  in  one 
darkened  room,  where  the  only  child  of  the 
house  lay,  with  life  ebbing  slowly  away ;  nor 
that  the  largess  which  seemed  so  munificent 
came  from  a  little  hand  that  was  soon  to  take 
farewell  of  all  earthly  treasures. 

They  were  still  singing,  by  way  of  gra- 
cious acknowledgment  of  so  handsome  a  gift, 
when  a  cab  drove  up  to  the  door  of  the  house, 
and  out  of  it  stepped  our  little  friend,  Morag. 
The  tall  footman,  her  escort,  ran  up  the  broad 
steps,  while  the  little  mountaineer  stood  on 
the  pa\rement  gazing  round,  bewildered  in  the 
midst  of  a  scene  so  new  and  strange. 

And  this  was  her  bonnie  wee  leddy's  home. 
Did  people  always  stand  there  and  sing  beau- 
tifully, she  wondered,  as  she  glanced  at  the 
German  band — and  then  at  the  many  bright- 
curtained  windows  of  Blanche  Clifford's  Lon- 
don home. 

At  length  the  great  hall  door  was  opened, 
and  a  blaze  of  light  fell  on  the  snowy  steps. 
Within  were  vistas  of  gilded  pillars  and  cor- 
"idors,  and  glimpses  of  bright  soft  hangings. 
To  Morag's  dazzled  eyes,  it  seemed  like  the 
entrance  to  an  enchanted  palace.  She  trem- 
blingly followed  her  guide,  and  the  door  was 


350  MORAG. 

closed  behind  her,  as  the  singing  boys  were 
watching  with  interest  the  little  girl  who 
looked  so  eagerly  at  everything  ;  and  somehow 
seemed  to  remind  them  of  their  sisters  and 
their  homes  in  the  Black  Forest. 

Another  tall  footman,  the  fac-simile  of 
Morag's  guide,  had  opened  the  door,  and  now 
he  stood  gazing,  more  curiously  than  kindly,  at 
the  stranger. 

"Law,  Thomas!  what  'ave  we  got  here? 
"Weil,  I  never.  Where  did  you  catch  that  'un," 
he  said,  with  a  rude  laugh  as  he  stood  staring 
at  the  little  girl. 

Poor  Morag  certainly  presented  a  grotesque 
enough  appearance  as  she  stood  there  in  the 
brightly-lighted  hall,  wrapped  in  the  great  tar- 
tan plaid,  which  was  fastened  behind,  while  the 
ends  fell  on  the  ground.  And  on  her  head  she 
wore  a  little  scarlet  hood,  a  relic  of  her  infancy, 
which  she  had  taken  from  the  depths  of  the  old 
kist — feeling  certain  that  Ellis  would  look  on 
her  more  favorably  if  she  wore  a  bonnet. 
But,  unfortunately,  the  hood  was  of  such  small 
dimensions  that  it  had  a  constant  tendency  to- 
wards the  back  of  her  neck,  leaving  her  black 
elf -like  locks  streaming  around. 

"  Come  now,  Sparks,  none  of  your  cheek. 
She's  the  nicest  little  shaver  possible — an  un- 


BE  YOND  THE  MO  UN  TA  INS.  y  5  7 


common  decent  little  thing ;  wasn't  no  trouble 
on  the  way,  neither ;  always  turned  up  all  right 
when  a  fellow  wanted  to  go  and  smoke  a  pipe, 
or  get  a  drop  of  somethink.  My  word,  I'd 
go  back  with  her  to-morrow,  I  would.'' 

"  Where's  Ellis  ? — ring  for  her,  will  you  ?  I 
must  get  this  little  girl  off  my  hands  now. 
How  is  missie,  by  the  way  ?  " 

"  Better  again,  to-day,  they  say.  Master 
is  looking  brisker,  too.  Dreadful  dull  Christ- 
mas-time for  a  fellow,  though.  There's  Ellis 
wouldn't  laugh  for  a  sovereign." 

Meanwhile,  Morag  stood  looking  eagerly 
round.  She  felt  sure  that  she  would  see  her  bon- 
nie  wee  leddy  emerge  from  some  of  those  vis- 
tas of  brightness ;  but  when  she  did  not  come, 
the  little  girl  began  to  feel  very  forlorn  as  she 
stood  there  in  the  hall.  She  could  not  under- 
stand what  the  servants  were  saying,  and  she 
began  to  wonder  what  was  going  to  happen 
next,  and  longed  for  a  sight  of  her  gracious  lit- 
tle friend,  who  never  had  failed  her  before. 

Morag  had  no  idea  how  seriously  ill  Blanche 
was,  and  she  had  been  hoping  during  her  jour- 
ney that  perhaps  her  bonnie  wee  leddy  might 
be  quite  well  again  by  the  time  she  arrived.  She 
had  got  so  quickly  well  after  the  loch  adven- 
ture ;  and  Morag  could  riot  conceive  of  her 


358  MORAG. 

looking  more  fragile  that  she  did  on  that  even- 
ing when  she  saw  her  last,  in  the  old  castle  of 
Glen  Eagle,  lying  on  the  sofa,  wrapped  in  her 
blue  flannel  dressing-gown. 

At  length  Ellis  came  bustling  along ;  and 
even  she  was  a  welcome  sight  to  poor  Morag 
in  her  forlornness. 

"  "Well,  little  girl ;  how  d'ye  do.  Yery  glad  to 
see  you: — never  thought  I  should  feel  so  glad  to 
see  you.  I  thought  you  would  come  to  see  inis- 
sie.  Miss  Prosser  told  me  the  master  had  sent 
for  you.  Miss  Clifford  does  know  not  yet.  She's 
so  weak,  you  see  ;  any  hagitation  is  bad,  but  I 
daresay  you  will  see  her  in  the  morning.  It's 
a  good  step  from  the  'ighlands — ain't  it  ?  I 
expect  you  are  tired — poor  thing,"  said  Ellis, 
glancing  rather  pityingly  at  Morag's  wistful 
face. 

"  I'm  no  that  tired.  But  she's  no  jist  verra 
ill,  is  she  ?  I  thocht  maybe  she  would  hae  been 
weel  gin  noo,''  said  Morag,  ruefully  returning 
to  the  subject  that  lay  nearest  her  heart,  as  Ellis 
led  her  along  what  seemed  to  her  a  maze  of 
brightly-lighted  passages. 

"  It  wasna  fallin'  intil  the  loch  that  hurtit 
her,  think  ye  ? 5?  she  asked  presently. 

"Well,  now,  I  shouldn't  wonder  though 
that  chill  had  something  to  do  with  it,"  replied 


BEYOND  THE  MOUNTAINS.  359 


Ellis,  as  if  she  had  received  a  new  idea.  "  Poor 
dear  missie,  she  is  so  sweet — almost  too  good 
to  live,  as  the  sayin'  is.  She's  much  better  to- 
day. I  daresay  she'll  be  able  to  have  a  look  at 
you  to-morrow." 

Morag's  heart  sank.  The  thought  of  see- 
ing her  bonnie  wee  leddy  at  the  end  of  her 
journey  had  kept  her  brave  through  its  fears 
and  discomforts ;  but  now  she  heard  that  an- 
other night  must  elapse  before  they  could  meet, 
and  she  would  be  left  alone  among  all  those 
strangers.  It  seemed  so  cruel  and  hard ;  and 
Morag  felt  sure  that  if  her  wee  leddy  knew  she 
was  here,  she  would  not  ask  her  to  wait  till 
to-morrow. 

Meanwhile,  Ellis  led  the  way  to  the  house- 
keeper's room,  leaving  Morag  to  be  warmed 
and  fed  and  generally  comforted  by  Mrs.  Wor- 
thy. The  old  housekeeper  welcomed  the  for- 
lorn little  maiden  kindly,  and  after  divesting 
her  of  the  tartan  plaid,  and  providing  a  comfort- 
able supper,  she  made  her  sit  down  in  a  big 
arm-chair  by  the  fire, — and,  taking  a  similar 
one  for  herself,  she  began  to  recall  reminis- 
cences of  Glen  Eagle,  and  to  make  inquiries 
about  the  dwellers  in  the  Glen  whose  aquairit- 
aiice  she  had  made  during  these  autumn  months. 

Presently.  Blanche's  illness  became  the  topic 


360  MORAG. 

of  conversatipn,  and  Morag  listened  eagerly 
to  all  Mrs.  Worthy  had  to  say  about  it.  Her 
heart  sank  when  she  heard  how  very  ill  her 
bonnie  wee  leddy  had  been.  After  looking 
meditatively  into  the  fire  for  some  time,  she 
looked  up  and  said  eagerly,  "  I'm  thinkin',  Mis- 
tress Worthy,  gin  they  wad  jist  bring  her  til  the 
auld  castle  o'  Glen  Eagle  to  bide,  and  lat  her 
rin  aboot  wi'  Shag  and  Chance  and  me,  when 
the  snaw  gaes  awa,  and  the  bit  flooers  begin  to 
creep  up,  she  wrad  get  braw  and  strong  again." 

"  Well,  there's  no  say  in',  little  girl.  I  likes 
to  see  young  folks  take  a  cheerin'  view  of 
things.  'While  there's  life,  there's  'ope,'  I 
always  say.  There's  my  Sarah  Jane  was  once 
a-spittin'  up — and  there  ain't  a  stronger  wom- 
an to  be  found  nowhere,  now ;  and  there's" — 

Here  Mrs.  Worthy's  family  chronicle  of  ill- 
nesses was  interrupted  by  a  bell  ringing  vio- 
lently within  the  room.  It  sounded  so  start- 
ling, that  Morag  jumped  to  her  feet,  and  even 
Mrs.  Worthy  looked  somewhat  alarmed  as  she 
rose  to  answer  it. 

"  -Bless  me,  it  ain't  often  that  bell  is  a  ring- 
in' — so  shockin'  loud,  too  !  What's  the  hurry. 
I  wonder?"  and  the  old  woman  bustled  away, 
leaviiig  her  companion  alone. 

Morag  thought  she  could   guess   why  the 


BEYOND  THE  MOUNTAINS.  361 


bell  had  just  rung ;  and  hoped  that  it  might 
prove  a  summons  for  her  to  go  to  the  bonnie 
wee  leddy.  She  sat  listening  eagerly  for  the 
sound  of  returning  footsteps,  but'  no  messenger 
appeared ;  so  Morag's  hope  died  away  at  last, 
and  she  began  to  feel  very  forlorn  indeed. 

As  she  sat,  looking  dreamily  into  the  flicker- 
ing fire,  she  remembered  another  evening  when 
she  found  herself  seated  in  Mrs.  Worthy's 
arm-chair,  in  the  midst  of  unwonted  comforts, 
and  how  very  frightened  and  uncomfortable 
she  was  till  the  wee  leddy  had  suddenly  ap- 
peared and  made  her  feel  so  safe  and  happy. 
And  as  she  gazed  among  the  glowing  coals, 
she  realized,  as  she  never  had  before,  what  an 
eventful  evening  that  had  been,  and  how  much 
had  happened  during  these  never-to-be-forgot- 
ten autumn  days.  All  at  once,  her  lonely 
child-life  seemed  to  be  filled  with  love  and 
brightness,  and  the  very  hills  and  glens  of  her 
mountain  home  to  be  glorified,  as  she  strayed 
among  them  with  her  bonnie  wee  leddy.  And 
then  the  friendship  with  Kirsty  Macpherson 
had  grown  out  of  these  days  too,  and  what 
happy  changes  it  had  brought  to  the  little 
shieling  among  the  crags!  Her  father's  brow 
was  cleared  of  its  perpetual  gloom ;  he  never 
said  bitter  things  about  his  neighbors  in  the 


362  MORAG. 

Glen  now,  and  when  Morag  and  he  went  to- 
gether to  the  kirk,  so  many  people  seemed 
glad  to  see  him  there. 

And  as  Morag  Dingwall's  thoughts  went 
slipping  back  to  these  golden  autumn  days, 
that  had  been  so  full  of  blessing  for  her,  she 
lifted  up  her  heart  in  thankfulness  to  God  for 
the  best  thing  among  all  the  many  good  things 
which  they  had  brought  to  her — the  knowl- 
edge of  the  Lord  Jesus  Christ,  her  Saviour. 
Had  the  wee  leddy  learnt  to  love  Him  too,  she 
wondered,  as  she  remembered  the  last  talk  in 
Glen  Eagle ;  and  then  she  thought,  joyfully, 
how  much  there  would  be  to  hear  and  tell  to- 
morrow, when  Ellis  had  promised  she  should 
see  her  friend. 

As  she  sat  gazing  into  the  fire,  Morag 
fell  asleep  in  the  big  arm-chair;  and  in  her 
dreams  she  thought  she  was  again  with  Blanche, 
struggling  through  the  rippling  water,  like 
the  .Pilgrims  in  the  picture.  But  neither 
of  them  appeared  to  feel  frightened,  as  they 
had  when  they  were  almost  drowned  in  the 
loch.  At  first  the  water  seemed  smooth  and 
shining,  and  Morag  could  hear  the  bonuie  wee 
leddy 's  silvery  voice  calling  to  her  to  come 
away,  for  she  saw  the  Golden  City  quite  clearly 
now — and  that  the  gates  were  really  wide  open 


BEYOND  THE  MOUNTAINS.  363 


still,  though  it  was  so  late  at  night.  Then 
Morag,  all  at  once,  began  to  feel  afraid,  for 
she  could  see  no  city  lying  in  the  sun ;  but 
only  a  great  leaden-looking  wave,  which  came 
creeping  towards  her,  throwing  its  gray  shadow 
on  the  shining  water;  then  she  lost  sight  of 
her  bonnie  wee  leddy,  and  could  only  hear  her 
voice  calling  her  to  come.  But  Morag  thought 
she  could  not  cross  the  dark  wave,  and  the 
silvery  voice  began  to  sound  very  far  away ; 
and  at  last  she  awoke,  trembling, — feeling  so 
glad  to  think  that  after  all  it  was  only  a  dream. 

The  fire,  which  had  been  so  bright  and 
warm  when  she  fell  asleep,  was  now  cold  and 
black.  The  candles,  too,  were  almost  burnt  to 
their  sockets;  and  Morag  saw  that  she  must 
have  slept  for  a  long  time.  She  began  to  won- 
der where  Mrs.  "Worthy  was,  and  whether  they 
meant  to  leave  her  there,  till  they  came  to 
take  her  to  see  the  bonnie  wee  leddy  in  the 
morning. 

She  would  not  have  treated  her  so,  thought 
Morag,  with  quivering  lip,  as  she  looked  blankly 
round  the  solitary  room,  where  everything 
seemed  so  gray  and  cheerless,  and  she  shivered 
as  she  remembered  the  leaden  wave  of  her 
dream,  and  began  to  feel  very  frightened  and 
homesick,  besides  being  cold  and  wearied. 


364  MORAG, 

Presently  she  heard  the  sound  of  footsteps 
re-echoing  along  the  silent  corridor,  and  Mrs. 
Worthy  walked  slowly  into  the  room  with  her 
nightcap  on.  In  her  hand  she  carried  a  candle, 
which  she  almost  dropped  in  her  astonishment 
at  seeing  Morag  seated  there. 

"  Bless  my  soul,  child !  are  you  here  still  ? 
I  was  just  on  my  way  to  bed.  I  declare  I 
had  quite  forgotten  all  about  you.  Dear,  dear, 
my  'ead's  quite  confused — and  no  wonder! 
Poor  dear,  you  must  be  sadly  tired.  Too 
bad  of  Ellis  not  to  have  taken  you  to  bed. 
She  promised  to  see  after  you  when  she  was 
sent  along  to  you.  I've  just  only  now  come 
from  missie's  room — dear  angel :  she  does  look 
so  sweet.  You'll  see  her  to-morrow,  my  poor 
dear!" 

And  then,  noticing  Morag's  wistful  look  as 
she  murmured,  "  No  the  nicht,"  the  old  woman 
pondered  for  a  while,  and  taking  the  candle 
again,  she  said,  "  Well,  well,  there  can't  be  no 
'arm :  they  are  all  cleared  away  now !  Come, 
I'll  take  you,  poor  dear.  You  haven't  been 
well  treated  noways  among  us  all,  and  I  heard 
the  master  tell  Ellis  that  she  was  to  look  to 
yon,  and  he  would  see  yon  himself  to-morrow." 

Morag's  heart  leapt  for  joy.  If  she  could 
only  see  her  bonnie  wee  leddy  even  for  a  uiin- 


BEYOND   THE  MOUNTAINS.  365 


ate,  and  feel  her  protecting  touch  again,  she 
would  forget  all  her  past  troubles  and  be  quite 
safe  and  happy  in  this  strange  land. 

She  followed  Mrs.  Worthy  with  joyful  steps 
as  she  led  her  along  the  passages,  which  were 
cold  and  dark  now.  She  smiled  as  she  thought 
how  astonished  the  wee  leddy  would  be  to 
see  her  mountain  friend,  for  she  remembered 
Ellis  had  said  that  she  was  not  to  be  told  of  her 
arrival  till  next  morning ;  but  it  was  so  good 
and  kind  of  Mrs.  Worthy  to  take  her  now. 
And  then  she  tried  to  picture  to  herself  how 
Blanche  would  be  looking.  Would  she  find 
her  lying  on  a  sofa,  dressed  in  her  pretty  blue 
dressing-gown,  which  she  wore  on  the  evening 
she  saw  her  last  at  the  old  castle  of  Glen  Eagle  ? 
And  would  she  seem  much  paler  than  she  did 
then  ?  Morag  feared  she  might,  when  she  re- 
membered what  a  long  time  she  had  laid  in  bed  ; 
but  summer  days  would  soon  come  again,  and 
the  sunshine,  which  the  bonnie  leddy  loved  so 
well,  would  be  sure  to  make  her  strong  again. 

Indeed,  in  her  secret  heart,  Morag  cherished 
the  hope  that  her  own  presence  might  act  as  a 
talisman,  and  she  smiled  to  think  of  the  pleasant 
voice  that  would  soon  bid  her  welcome;  for, 
since  the  dark  hour  in  the  fir- wood,  when  she 
thought  Blanche  had  left  the  Glen  without  re- 


366  MORAG. 

membering  to  say  farewell,  Morag  had  never 
doubted  the  love  and  friendship  of  her  gracious 
little  friend. 

At  last  Mrs.  Worthy  stopped  at  a  closed 
door,  and  as  she  lowered  the  candle  which  she 
held  in  her  hand,  Morag  caught  sight  of  a  fa- 
miliar friend  lying  on  the  mat. 

Chance  was  waiting  there  in  a  listening  pos- 
ture, with  his  nose  against  the  door.  Morag 
stooped  down  and  patted  him,  but,  instead  of 
jumping  up  at  her  in  outrageous  welcome,  as  he 
used  to  do,  he  merely  gave  a  faint  wag  of  his 
tail,  and  looking  wistfully  into  her  face,  raised 
a  low,  whining  cry,  and  put  his  nose  close  to 
the  door  again. 

"  I'm  thinkin'  Chance  will  be  wantin'  in — 
to  get  a  sicht  o'  her  too,"  said  Morag,  smiling. 

"  Yes,  poor  brute ;  hanimals  has  a  deal  of 
feelin'.  He's  been  in  a  dreadful  way ;  indeed 
I  thought  they  locked  him  up  for  the  night, 
but  he  seems  to  have  got  loose  again,"  replied 
Mrs.  Worthy,  as  she  opened  the  door  and 
stepped  softly  in,  followed  by  Morag  and 
Chance. 

The  little  girl  looked  eagerly  round  among 
the  mirrors  and  pictures  and  pretty  statuettes 
for  the  face  which  had  never  failed  before 
to  smile  a  sunny  welcome  upon  her,  but  her 


BEYOND   THE  MOUNTAINS.  367 


bonnie  wee  leddy  was  nowhere  to  be  seen, 
and  a  terrible  stillness  seemed  to  pervade  the 
room. 

Drawing  aside  the  rose-colored  curtains  of 
a  little  bed,  which  Morag  had  not  noticed  in 
her  eager  glance  round  the  room,  Mrs.  Worthy 
beckoned  for  the  little  girl  to  come  near,  and 
Morag  looked  at  last  on  the  face  of  her  bonnie 
wee  leddy.  She  seemed  sleeping  peacefully ; 
the  golden  curls  lay  in  rich  masses  on  the 
pillow,  and  the  fluttering  fingers  were  at  rest 
on  the  white  coverlet.  The  room  was  dimly 
lighted,  and  a  shadow  fell  from  the  curtain  on 
her  face ;  so  Morag  drew  closer  that  she  might 
see  her  more  clearly — feeling  a  pang  of  disap- 
pointment that  she  was  asleep.  But  had  not 
Ellis  said  that  to-morrow  morning  she  would 
speak  to  her  ?  and  she  could  wait. 

"  She's  sleepin'  richt  soun'  the  noo,  I'm 
thinkiu',"  she  whispered  softly  to  Mrs.  Worthy, 
who  was  holding  back  the  curtain. 

"Sleeping!  yes,  my  little  dear,  you  are 
right.  Children  does  put  things  nice  at  times. 
Dear  angel — not  dead,  but  sleeping:  a  long, 
long  sleep,  till  the  resurrection  morn  !  " 

With  a  long,  low  cry  of  anguish,  Morag 
knelt  beside  the  dead  body  of  her  bonnie  wee 
leddy,  and  kissed  her  cold,  dead  hand  ! 


368  MORAG. 

She  understood  it  all  now.  Blanche  Clif- 
ford had  passed  away  on  this  Christmas  Eve 
from  our  lower  world — with  all  its  lights  and 
shadows,  all  its  wealth  and  all  its  woe — to  that 
other,  where  the  pure  in  heart  are  perfectly 
blessed,  for  they  see  God  ! 

Perhaps  here  we  should  take  farewell  of 
our  mountain  maiden  ;  for,  with  the  passing 
away  from  earth  of  her  bonnie  wee  leddy, 
ended  the  childhood  of  Morag  Dingwall,  never 
again  to  visit  her,  save  in  dreams  of  the  night 
and  memories  of  the  past ! 

We  shall  but  cast  a  glance  across  the  vista 
of  years,  when  these  autumn  days  lay  far  away 
in  the  calm,  clear  distance,  and  seem  like  a  tale 
that  is  told  ; — when  Kirsty  has  laid  down  her 
frail  body  to  sleep  in  the  little  graveyard  on 
the  hillside,  to  await  the  coming  of  the  Lord 
she  loved  so  well; — when  the  keen  eyes  of 
the  keeper  Dingwall  no  longer  scan  the  hills 
and  moors  of  Glen  Eagle,  nor  his  steady  hand 
takes  unerring  aim ;  for  his  stalwart  form  lies 
mouldering  in  the  shadow  of  the  hills  he  has 
so  often  trod  ! 

The  keeper's  earthly  life  had  closed  in  the 
midst  of  less  vivid  hopes,  perhaps,  and  shad- 
owed by  more  bitter  memories,  than  Kirsty's 


BEYOND   THE  MOUNTAIN'S.  369 


blameless  years  had  wrought.  But  he,  too, 
had  learnt  to  live  in  the  faith  and  hope  of 
the  words  which  welcomed  him  to  the  table 
of  the  Lord  below,  and  to  know  it  to  be  a 
"  faithful  saving,  that  '  Jesus  Christ  came  into 
the  world  to  save  sinners.' " 

The  shieling  among  the  crags,  which  had 
been  his  home  so  long,  was  a  roofless  ruin  now. 
And  long  dank  grass  and  nettles  grew  on  the 
earthen  floor,  which  had  proved,  of  old,  such  a 
sea  of  trouble  to  the  little  Morag. 

Kenneth  Macpherson,  Kirsty's  grandson, 
reigned  over  the  realms  of  deer  and  moor-fowl 
in  the  Glen  now ;  and  the  keeper's  daughter 
had  become  the  keeper's  wife. 

Their  home  was  the  loveliest  spot  in  all  the 
strath — a  pleasant,  light,  airy,  well-built  cot- 
tage, placed  at  a  sunny  angle  of  the  pine  forest, 
which  protected  it  from  the  cold  north  winds 
when  they  swept  along  the  Glen. 

Firwood  Neuk,  for  so  it  had  been  called  by 
its  owners,  possessed  every  pretty  and  useful 
accessory,  within  and  without,  which  peasant 
life  could  require.  It  was  quite  a  model  home- 
stead, with  its  wealthy  barn-yard  and  farm- 
stead, and  its  pretty  productive  garden — the 
last  earthly  gift  of  a  little  vanished  hand,  which 
had  dropped  its  earthly  treasures  as  she  used 
24 


370  MORAG. 

to  do  her  wild  flowers  in  these  woods  long  ago, 
when  anything  more  precious  came  in  sight. 

Mr.  Clifford  never  came  to  shoot  in  Glen 
Eagle  again  ;  but,  nevertheless,  he  was  more 
than  faithful  to  the  wishes  of  his  child,  and 
Blanche's  friends  lacked  for  nothing  which 
money  could  supply — humbly  and  gratefully 
accepted  by  these  proud  Highland  spirits  as 
the  benefaction  of  the  gracious  child  who  had 
loved  them  all  so  well. 

Often,  indeed,  Mr.  Clifford  had  been  tempt- 
ed, during  the  earlier  years,  to  go  beyond  his 
daughter's  wishes  when  he  noticed  Morag's  in- 
satiable thirst  for  knowledge :  to  take  her  from 
her  quiet  haunts,  and  bring  art  and  culture  to 
aid  in  her  training.  But  he  called  to  mind 
Blanche's  wise  decision,  and  left  the  child  of 
the  mountains  to  her  "lowlier,  more  unlet- 
tered fate." 

Still,  Morag's  intellectual  cravings  were  not 
unprovided  for.  In  one  of  the  rooms  of  her 
pleasant  home  there  stood  a  pretty  book-case 
filled  with  rows  of  shining  books — another 
memorial  of  Blanche's  love.  And,  among  the 
handsome  bin  'ings,  there  were  interspersed 
certain  old,  worn  books,  which  were  very  dear 
to  Morag's  heart,  for  had  they  not  been  taken 
from  the  depths  of  the  old  kist  ? — and  stood 


BEYOND  THE  MOUNTAINS.  371 


there,  among  the  newer  volumes,  like  ancient 
historical  monuments  surrounded  by  pretty 
modern  villas. 


It  was  the  twelfth  of  August,  and  the 
keeper's  wife  stood  waiting  in  the  gloaming 
for  her  husband,  who  had  not  yet  returned 
from  the  moors. 

The  work  of  the  day  was  done,  and  the 
children  safely  folded  for  the  night, — for  there 
were  young  voices  again  re-echoing  through 
tne  forest,  and  little  feet  toddling  among  the 
brown  fir-needles. 

Her  husband  was  not  yet  in  sight,  so  pres- 
ently Morag  wandered  into  the  fir-wood,  where 
the  great  aisles  of  pine  reared  themselves  calm 
and  stately  as  of  old. 

Leaning  against  one  of  the  old  red  firs, 
which  seemed  written  over  with  many  memor- 
ies to  her,  she  called  to  mind  one  August  day 
long  ago.  And  as  she  stood  gazing  dreamily 
there,  she  seemed  to  see  again  the  lovely,  sing- 
ing child,  coming  like  a  happy  fate  towards  the 
desolate  little  maiden  who  leant  there  on  that 
bright  morning,  to  hear  again  the  "  glad  tidings 
of  great  joy"  borne  unconsciously  by  the  silvery 
voice  to  a  listening  ear  and  waiting  soul,  and 
to  feel  the  soft,  sisterly  touch  of  the  little  flut- 


872  MO  RAG. 

tering  hand  that  sent  glow  and  warmth  to  a 
heart  which,  but  for  that  touch  of  human  sym- 
pathy, might  have  turned  to  stone. 

Morag  had  seen  many  gentle  ladies,  old  and 
young,  since  these  autumn  days  long  ago.  The 
solitary  Glen  had  got  into  guide-books  now, 
and  every  year  brought  many  strangers  to  roam 
among  its  woods  and  hills;  but  never  could 
any  other  dwell  in  her  memory  as  Blanche 
Clifford  did — never,  she  thought,  could  she  see 
"  her  like  again  !  " 

Many  a  year  had  come  and  gone  since  that 
memorable  twelfth  of  August,  when  the  south- 
ern guests  came  to  seek  their  pleasure  among 
the  moors  of  Glen  Eagle.  Silver  lines  were 
visible  on  Morag's  once  raven  black  locks,  and 
her  step  was  slower  than  it  used  to  be,  as  she 
sauntered  through  the  old  red  fir-trees,  which 
were  all  aglow  in  the  sunset. 

With  a  sigh  of  weariness  she  at  last  seated 
herself  on  a  gray,  lichen-spotted  dyke  which 
skirted  the  forest. 

"  Ay !  and  she'll  aye  be  young,  though  I'm 
growin'  auld,"  she  murmured,  for  she  still 
retained  her  ancient  habit  of  speaking  her 
thoughts  aloud,  acquired  n  her  solitary  child- 
hood. 

Leaning  her  head   upon  her  hand,  she  sat 


BEY&ND  THE  MOUNTAINS,  373 


watching  the  sun  as  it  sank  behind  the  old 
castle  of  Glen  Eagle. 

The  amber  clouds  were  hovering  round  the 
dying  sun,  like  ponderous  gates  ready  to  close 
on  the  inner  "vistas  of  gold  and  crimson.  Mo- 
rag  sat  gazing  with  glistening  eyes  at  the 
cloud-land  scene ;  she  well  knew  that  "  richest 
teuderest  glow"  which  lingers  round  the  autum- 
nal sun,  and  always  loved  to  wratch  it. 

"  But  there  sight  fails  ;  no  heart  may  know 
The  bliss  when  life  is  done." 

"  It's  growin'  cauld  and  mirk,  and  I  maun 
be  goin'  home,"  murmured  Morag,  as  she  rose 
to  go  down  the  hill,  when  all  had  faded  into 
grey  twilight.  Then  she  added,  softly  :  "  She 
liket  weel  to  see  the  sun  gae  doun  amang  oor 
hills ;  an'  it  aye  miu's  me  upo'  her.  Bon- 
nie wee  leddy  !  '  Thy*  sun  shall  no  more  go 
down,  neither  shall  thy  moon  withdraw  its 
sinning,  for  the  Lord  is  thine  everlasting  light, 
and  thy  God  thy  glory.'  " 


THE     END. 


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